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. (With great expression.) The Lute of Love--the Lute. (She pats her mouth back.)
TREMAYNE. And what 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 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). I think perhaps it _is_ your turn.
BELINDA (eagerly). Is it really? (He nods.) Well then--_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. 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 (annoyed). I was forgetting them.
BELINDA (to herself). I mustn't forget Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE (getting up). But what does it matter? What would it matter if I knew nothing about you? I know everything about you-- everything that matters.
BELINDA (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. 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. This is horrible.
BELINDA (innocently). But anybody can propose. Now if you'd asked how many I'd accepted--Let me see, where was I up to? I shan't count yours, because I haven't really had it yet. Six, seven--Yes, Betty, what is it?
[BETTY has just come in from the door on the left.]
BETTY. If you please, ma'am, cook would like to speak to you for a minute.
BELINDA (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To TREMAYNE.) You'll forgive me, won't you? You'll find some cigarettes there. (She starts to go, but comes back and adds confidentially) 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, occasionally kicking things which come in his way. He takes up his hat suddenly and goes towards the door; stops irresolutely and comes back. He is standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets when DEVENISH comes in from the door on the left.)
DEVENISH (surprised). Hullo!
TREMAYNE Hullo! ... 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-grandchildren would be the first to hear of me.
TREMAYNE. My name's Robinson, by the way.
DEVENISH.
