(Bending down to her.) Kiss me, dear.
(She kisses him perfunctorily on the cheek; he sighs; she turns and descends the ladder on the left; he follows her.)
How sweet it is!...
Clare.
Sweet?
Michael.
Your “pigtail,” dear. The sight of it makes me feel a boy again. I should like to pull it and run away.
(Clare laughs and they both descend out of sight. A pause. The nightingale starts singing. Mrs. O’Farrel emerges from the summer-house. Her step is almost jaunty with suppressed triumph, and her manner elaborately off-hand. The Dean remains invisible in the summer-house.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Ah, the nightingale! How charmingly it sings to-night!... I do wish we had some nightingales at Ashurst. I suppose they prefer low-lying ground like this.... Do they sing in your garden at the Deanery?