DELIA. Aren't these two--the present two--serious?
BELINDA. Oh no! They think they are, but they aren't a bit, really.
Besides, I'm doing them such a lot of good. I'm sure they'd hate to
marry me, but they love to think they're in love with me, and--_I_
love it, and--and _they_ love it, and--and we _all_ love it.
DELIA. You really are the biggest, darlingest baby who ever lived.
(Kisses her.) Do say I shan't spoil your lovely times.
BELINDA (surprised). Spoil them? Why, you'll make them more lovely
than ever.
DELIA. Well, but do they know you have a grown-up daughter?
BELINDA (suddenly realizing). Oh!
DELIA. It doesn't really matter, because you don't look a day more
than thirty.
BELINDA (absently). No. (Hurriedly.) I mean, how sweet of you--
only--
DELIA. What!
BELINDA (playing with her rings). Well, one of them, Mr. Baxter--
Harold--(she looks quickly up at DELIA and down again in pretty
affectation, but she is really laughing at herself all the
time) he writes statistical articles for the Reviews--percentages
and all those things. He's just the sort of man, if he knew that I
was your mother, to work it out that I was more than thirty. The
other one, Mr. Devenish--Claude--(she looks up and down as before)
he's rather, rather poetical. He thinks I came straight from
heaven--last week.
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