DEVENISH. Baxter, I don't want to disappoint you, but I have
reluctantly come to the conclusion that you _are_ one of the mob.
(Annoyed.) Dash it! what are you doing in the country at all in a
bowler-hat?

BAXTER. If I wanted to be personal, I could say, "Why don't you get
your hair cut?" Only that form of schoolboy humour doesn't appeal
to me.

DEVENISH. This is not a personal matter; I am protesting on behalf
of nature. What do the birds and the flowers and the beautiful
trees think of your hat?

BAXTER. If one began to ask oneself what the birds thought of
things--(He pauses.)

DEVENISH. Well, and why shouldn't one ask oneself? It is better
than asking oneself what the Stock Exchange thinks of things.

BAXTER. Well (looking up at DEVENISH'S extravagant hair), it's the
nesting season. Your hair! (Suddenly.) Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

DEVENISH (hastily smoothing it down). Really, Baxter, you're
vulgar. (He turns away and resumes his promenading. Suddenly he
sees his book on the grass beneath the hammock and makes a dash for
it.) Ha, my book! (Gloating over it) Baxter, she reads my book.

BAXTER. I suppose you gave her a copy.

DEVENISH (exultingly). Yes, I gave her a copy. My next book will be