Spread. At mine? Never saw it before in my life.
Jen. We planted it together thirty years ago—the day you sailed for India.
Spread. It appears to me that that was a very eventful day in my career. We planted it together! I have no recollection of having ever planted a gigantic sycamore anywhere. And we did it together! Why, it would take a dozen men to move it.
Jen. It was a sapling then—you cut it for me.
Spread. (suddenly and with energy). From the old sycamore in the old garden at Hampstead! Why, I remember; I went to London expressly to get it for you. (Laughing—sitting on her left.) And the next day I called to say good-bye, and I found you planting it, and I helped; and as I was helping I found an opportunity to seize your hand. (Does so.) I grasped it—pressed it to my lips—(does so), and said, “My dear, dear Jenny” (he drops her hand suddenly), and so forth. Never mind what I said—but I meant it—I meant it! (Laughs heartily—she joins him, but her laughter is evidently forced—eventually she shows signs of tears, which he doesn’t notice.) It all comes back with a distinctness which is absolutely photographic. I begged you to give me a flower—you gave me one—a sprig of geranium.
Jen. Mignonette.
Spread. Was it mignonette? I think you’re right—it was mignonette. I seized it—pressed it to my trembling lips—placed it next my fluttering heart, and swore that come what might I would never, never part with it!—I wonder what I did with that flower!—And then I took one from my button hole—begged you to take it—you took it, and—ha, ha, ha!—you threw it down carelessly on the table, and thought no more about it, you heartless creature—ha, ha, ha! Oh, I was very angry! I remember it perfectly; it was a camellia.
Jen. (half crying aside). Not a camellia, I think.
Spread. Yes, a camellia, a large white camellia.