PURDIE (merciless in his passion). Say it, Mabel, say it. See I write
it on the ground with your sunshade.

MABEL. If it could be! Jack, I'll whisper it to you.

(She is whispering it as they wander, not two but one, farther into
the forest, ardently believing in themselves; they are not
hypocrites. The somewhat bedraggled figure of Joanna follows them,
and the nightingale resumes his love-song. 'That's all you know, you
bird!' thinks Joanna cynically. The nightingale, however, is not
singing for them nor for her, but for another pair he has espied
below. They are racing, the prize to be for the one who first finds
the spot where the easel was put up last night. The hobbledehoy is
sure to be the winner, for she is less laden, and the father loses
time by singing as he comes. Also she is. all legs and she started
ahead. Brambles adhere to her, one boot has been in the water and she
has as many freckles as there are stars in heaven. She is as lovely
as you think she is, and she is aged the moment when you like your
daughter best. A hoot of triumph from her brings her father to the
spot.)

MARGARET. Daddy, Daddy. I have won. Here is the place.
Crack-in-my-eye-Tommy!

(He comes. Crack-in-my-eye-Tommy, this engaging fellow in tweeds
is MR. DEARTH, ablaze in happiness and health and a daughter. He
finishes his song, picked up in the Latin Quarter.)

DEARTH. Yes, that is the tree I stuck my easel under last night, and