I adore it.
BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad! When I saw it sitting there I thought
you'd love it. I'm afraid I can't tell you any more about the rest
of the dinner, because I wouldn't tell Mr. Devenish, and I want to
be fair.
TREMAYNE. Who's Mr. Devenish?
BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here.
TREMAYNE Is he in love with you too?
BELINDA. Too? Oh, you mean Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE. Confound it, that's three!
BELINDA (innocently). Three? (She looks up at him and down again.)
TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
BELINDA. Oh, haven't you met him? He's always coming here.
TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
BELINDA. Oh, he's a sort of statistician. Isn't that a horrid word
to say? So stishany.
TREMAYNE. What does he make statistics about?
BELINDA. Oh, umbrellas and things. Don't let's talk about him.
TREMAYNE. All right, then; who is Mr. Devenish?
BELINDA. Oh, he's a poet. (She throws up her eyes and sighs
deeply.) Ah me!
TREMAYNE. What does he write poetry about? (BELINDA looks at him,
and down again, and then at him again, and then down, and gives a
little sigh--all of which means, "Can't you guess?") What does he
write poetry about?
BELINDA (obediently). He wrote "The Lute of Love and other Poems,
by Claude Devenish." The Lute of Love--(To herself.) I haven't been
saying that lately.
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