DEVENISH. Baxter, I don't want to disappoint you, but I have reluctantly
come to the conclusion that you are one of the mob. (_Throws magazine
down on table, 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. (_Leaning against tree_.) 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, going down R. and
then round deck-chair to front of hammock. Suddenly he sees his book on
the grass beneath the hammock and makes a dash for it_.
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