[Illustration :]
(DEVENISH _kisses her hand_.)
I'm afraid my--er--aunt is out.
DEVENISH. I know, Miss Delia, I know.
DELIA. She'll be so sorry to have missed you. It is her day for you,
isn't it?
DEVENISH. Her day for me?
DELIA. Yes; Mr. Baxter generally comes to-morrow, doesn't he?
DEVENISH (_jealously_). Miss Delia, if our friendship is to
progress at all, it can only be on the distinct understanding that I
take no interest whatever (_coming to back of table_ C.) in Mr.
Baxter's movements.
DELIA (_moving down_ R. _a little_). Oh, I'm so sorry; I
thought you knew. What lovely flowers! Are they for my aunt?
DEVENISH. To whom does one bring violets? To modest, shrinking, tender
youth.
DELIA. I don't think we have anybody here like that.
DEVENISH (_with a bow and holding out the violets to her_). Miss
Delia, they are for you.
DELIA (_smelling and taking violets_). Oh, how nice of you! But I'm
afraid I oughtn't to take them from you under false pretences; I don't
shrink.
DEVENISH. A fanciful way of putting it, perhaps. They are none the less
for you.
DELIA.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54