Devenish (he rises and taking her hands, raises her from the chair. She backs a step to R.). Do. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here–(he pulls her gently back. They both sit on the table. He places his arm round her waist)–I will be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.
Delia. How nice of you!
Devenish (magnificently, holding up his L. hand to Heaven). Farewell, Parnassus!
Delia (pulling down his hand). What does that mean?
Devenish. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.–(she holds up her L. hand admonishingly and he laughs apologetically )–no, look here, that was quite accidental.
Delia (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I get to know you.
Devenish. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was three days ago.
Delia. You are different. (They both rise from the table. She pulls him to R. one step.) Perhaps it's your sense of humour coming back.
Devenish. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.
Delia (pulling him towards the swing doors). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly moon.