DEVENISH. That's only guesswork (_going to back of table_); you
don't know of anyone else.

BAXTER (_with contempt_). How many people, may I ask, have bought
your poems?

DEVENISH (_loftily_). I don't write for the mob.

BAXTER. I think I may say that of my own work.

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!