DEVENISH. Mr. Baxter—father—I have a proposal to make. We will leave it to this beautiful flower to decide which of us the lady loves.
BAXTER (turning round). Eh?
DEVENISH (pulling off the petals). She loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter, she loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter—Heaven help her!—she loves me—
BELINDA (at the garden door.). What are you doing, Mr. Devenish!
DEVENISH (throwing away the flower and bowing very low). My lady.
BAXTER (removing his bowler-hat stiffly). Good afternoon, Mrs. Tremayne.
(She gives her left hand to DEVENISH, who kisses it, and her right to BAXTER, who shakes it.)
BELINDA. How nice of you both to come!
BAXTER. Mr. Devenish and I are inseparable—apparently.
BELINDA. You haven't told me what you were doing, Mr. Devenish. Was it "This year, next year?" or "Silk, satin—"