Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned.
BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter--Mr. Devenish, I have something
to tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I
think you both ought to know that--I--I made a mistake. Delia is
not my niece; she is my daughter.
DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping!
(BELINDA gives him an understanding look.)
BAXTER. Your daughter!
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. But--but you aren't old enough to have a daughter of that
age.
BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is.
BAXTER. But--but she's grown up.
BELINDA. Quite.
BAXTER. Then in that case you must be--(He hesitates, evidently
working it out.)
BELINDA (hastily). I'm afraid so, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when
I'm fifty you would be--
BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should.
BAXTER. And when I'm sixty--
BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can't you stop him?
DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you'll never
_get_ to sixty.
BAXTER. And then there's Miss--er--Delia. In the event of our
marrying, Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter.
BELINDA. I don't think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I
have an idea that she will be getting married before long. (She
glances at DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.
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