MARY ROSE. That moss! I feel sure there is a tree-trunk beneath it, the very root on which I used to sit and sketch.
(He clears away some of the moss.)
SIMON. It is a tree-trunk right enough.
MARY ROSE. I believe—I believe I cut my name on it with a knife.
SIMON. This looks like it. ‘M—A—R—’ and there it stops. That is always where the blade of the knife breaks.
MARY ROSE. My ownest seat, how I have missed you.
SIMON. Don’t you believe it, old tree-trunk. She had forgotten all about you, and you just came vaguely back to her mind because we happened to be in the neighbourhood.
MARY ROSE. Yes, I suppose that is true. You were the one who wanted to come, Simon. I wonder why?
SIMON (with his answer ready). No particular reason. I wanted to see a place you had visited as a child; that was all. But what a trumpery island it proves to be.
MARY ROSE (who perhaps agrees with him). How can you? Even if it is true, you needn’t say it before them all, hurting their feelings. Dear seat, here is one for each year I have been away. (She kisses the trunk a number of times.)