Delia (moving down R. a little). Oh, I'm so sorry; I thought you knew. What lovely flowers! Are they for my aunt?
Devenish. To whom does one bring violets? To modest, shrinking, tender youth.
Delia. I don't think we have anybody here like that.
Devenish (with a bow and holding out the violets to her). Miss Delia, they are for you.
Delia (smelling and taking violets). Oh, how nice of you! But I'm afraid I oughtn't to take them from you under false pretences; I don't shrink.
Devenish. A fanciful way of putting it, perhaps. They are none the less for you.
Delia. Well, it's awfully kind of you. (Puts flowers down. Then she moves up to the cupboard. He follows on her L. and opens the door.) I'm afraid I'm not a very romantic person. (Turning to him in cupboard doorway.) Aunt Belinda does all the romancing in our family.
Devenish. Your aunt is a very remarkable woman.
Delia. She is. Don't you dare to say a word against her. (Takes up a vase from a chair in cupboard and shakes it as if draining it.)
Devenish. My dear Miss Delia, nothing could be further from my thoughts. Why, am I not indebted to her for that great happiness which has come to me in these last few days?