TREMAYNE. What does he make statistics about?
BELINDA. Oh (giving a sly look round at cupboard door), umbrellas and things. Don't let's talk about him.
TREMAYNE. All right, then; (going up to her jealously) 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, then raises and drops her arms, 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."
(TREMAYNE is annoyed and turns away to the fireplace.)
The Lute of Love—(To herself.) I haven't been saying that lately. (With great expression.) The Lute of Love—the Lute. (She pats her mouth back.)
TREMAYNE. And who is Mr. Devenish—!
BELINDA (putting her hand on his sleeve). You'll let me know when it's my turn, won't you?
TREMAYNE. Your turn?
BELINDA. Yes, to ask questions. I love this game—it's just like clumps. (She crosses her hands on her lap and waits for the next question.)
TREMAYNE. I beg your pardon. I—er—of course have no right to cross–examine you like this.
BELINDA. Oh, do go on, I love it. (With childish excitement.) I've got my question ready.
TREMAYNE (smiling and going and sitting beside her again). I think perhaps it is your turn.
BELINDA (eagerly). Is it really? (He nods.) Well then— (in a loud voice)—who is Mr. Robinson?
TREMAYNE (alarmed). What?
BELINDA. I think it's a fair question. I met you three days ago and you told me you were staying at Mariton. Mariton. You can say it all right now, can't you?
TREMAYNE. I think so.
BELINDA (coaxingly). Just say it.
TREMAYNE. Mariton.
BELINDA (clapping her hands). Lovely! I don't think any of the villagers do it as well as that.
TREMAYNE. Well?
BELINDA (looking very hard at TREMAYNE—he wonders whether she has discovered his identity). Well, that was three days ago. You came the next day to see the garden, and you came the day after to see the garden, and you've come this morning—to see the garden; and you're coming to dinner to–night, and it's so lovely, we shall simply have to go into the garden afterwards. And all I know about you is that you haven't any relations called Robinson.
TREMAYNE. What do I know about Mrs. Tremayne but that she has a relation called Robinson?
BELINDA. And two dear friends called Devenish and Baxter.
TREMAYNE (rising—annoyed). I was forgetting them. (Crosses to below L. end of C. table.)
BELINDA (to herself, with a sly look round at the cupboard), I mustn't forget Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE. But what does it matter? What would it matter if I knew nothing about you? (Moving up to R. end of Chesterfield and leaning over it.) I know everything about you—everything that matters.
BELINDA (leaning back and closing her eyes contentedly). Tell me some of them. TREMAYNE (bending over her earnestly). Belinda—
BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). He's going to propose to me. I can feel it coming.
TREMAYNE (starting back). Confound it! how many men have proposed to you?
BELINDA (surprised). Since when?
TREMAYNE. Since your first husband proposed to you.
BELINDA. Oh, I thought you meant this year. (Sitting up.) Well now, let me see. (Slowly and thoughtfully.) One. (She pushes up her first finger.) Two. (She pushes up the second.) Three. (She pushes up the third finger, holds it there for a moment and then pushes it gently down again.) No, I don't think that one ought to count really. (She pushes up two more fingers and the thumb.) Three, four, five—do you want the names or just the total?
TREMAYNE (moving up L. and then over R.). This is horrible.
BELINDA (innocently). But anybody can propose. Now if you'd asked how many I'd accepted—
(He turns sharply to her—annoyed.)
Let me see, where was I up to?
(He moves down R.)
I shan't count yours, because I haven't really had it yet.
(BETTY enters down R. and stands behind settee.)
Six, seven—Yes, Betty, what is it?
BETTY. If you please, ma'am, cook would like to speak to you for a minute.
(TREMAYNE goes up R.C.)
BELINDA (getting up). Yes, I'll come.
(BETTY goes out, leaving the door open. BELINDA crosses Before the table.)
(To TREMAYNE.) You'll forgive me, won't you? You'll find some cigarettes there. (Points to table up R. TREMAYNE moves by the back of the settee and holds the door for BELINDA. She turns to him in the doorway.) It's probably about the lamb cutlets; I expect your little one refuses to be cooked.
(She goes out after BETTY.)
(Left alone TREMAYNE stalks moodily about the room, crossing it and kicking things which come in his way. Violently, he kicks a hassock which is above the table R. to under the table C., then he takes up his hat and moves towards the swing doors and half opens them. He pauses and considers—then he comes down to the centre table, throws down his hat, moves round the left end of the table, finds the dog in the way and then sits on the table with his hands in his pockets, facing the audience. As he has been moving about the room, he has muttered the names of BAXTER and DEVENISH.)
DEVENISH (entering from the door R., which he closes and goes to foot of the settee R.—surprised). Hullo!
(A pause.)
TREMAYNE (jealously, and rising). Are you Mr. Devenish?
DEVENISH. Yes.
TREMAYNE. Devenish the poet?
DEVENISH (coming up and shaking him warmly by the hand). My dear fellow, you know my work?
TREMAYNE (grimly). My dear Mr. Devenish, your name is most familiar to me.
DEVENISH. I congratulate you. I thought your great–grand–children would be the first to hear of me.
TREMAYNE (moving to L.). My name's Robinson, by the way.
DEVENISH (connecting him with DELIA). Then let me return the compliment, Robinson. Your name is familiar to me.
TREMAYNE (hastily, and going towards DEVENISH). I don't think I'm related to any Robinsons you know.
DEVENISH (dubiously). Well, no, I suppose not. When I was very much younger I began a collection of Robinsons. Actually it was only three days ago, but it seems much longer. (Thinking of DELIA.) Many things have happened since then.