MARY ROSE. They didn’t hurt me at all.
SIMON. Perhaps they like you better than me. Well, we have made a good search for the place where you used to sit and sketch, and you must now take your choice.
MARY ROSE. It was here. I told you of the fir and the rowan-tree.
SIMON. There were a fir and a rowan at each of the other places.
MARY ROSE. Not this fir, not this rowan.
SIMON. You have me there.
MARY ROSE. Simon, I know I’m not clever, but I’m always right. The rowan-berries! I used to put them in my hair. (She puts them in her hair again.) Darling rowan-tree, are you glad to see me back? You don’t look a bit older, how do you think I am wearing? I shall tell you a secret. You too, firry. Come closer, both of you. Put your arms around me, and listen: I am married!
(The branch of which she has been making a scarf disengages itself.)
It didn’t like that, Simon, it is jealous. After all, it knew me first. Dearest trees, if I had known that you felt for me in that way—but it is too late now. I have been married for nearly four years, and this is the man. His name is Lieutenant Simon Sobersides. (She darts about making discoveries.)
SIMON (tranquilly smoking). What is it now?