SIMON. All right. Tell me, what were you thinking as you sat up there in the apple-room, waiting?
MARY ROSE. Holy things.
SIMON. About love?
(She nods.)
MARY ROSE. We’ll try to be good, won’t we, Simon, please?
SIMON. Rather. Honest Injun, we’ll be nailers. Did you think of—our wedding-day?
MARY ROSE. A little.
SIMON. Only a little?
MARY ROSE. But frightfully clearly. (Suddenly.) Simon, I had such a delicious idea about our honeymoon. There is a place in Scotland—in the Hebrides—I should love to go there.
SIMON (taken aback). The Hebrides?