Chesterfield to the left end of it_.) And then you're coming to dinner again to-night.
TREMAYNE (_eagerly and leaning over the Chesterfield_). Am I?
BELINDA. Yes. Haven't you been asked?
TREMAYNE (_going round the left end of the Chesterfield_). No, not a word.
BELINDA. Yes, that's quite right; I remember now, I only thought of it this morning, so I couldn't ask you before, could I?
TREMAYNE (_earnestly_). What made you think of it then?
BELINDA (_romantically_). It was at the butcher's.
TREMAYNE. Eh?
BELINDA. There was one little lamb cutlet left over and sitting out all by itself, and there was nobody to love it. And I said to myself, suddenly, "I know, that will do for Mr. Robinson." (_Protaically_.) I do hope you like lamb?
TREMAYNE (_sitting on her left side_). I adore it.
BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad I 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 (_jealously_). 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 (_rising and moving to fireplace_). 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 (_turning away and looking into fireplace_). Who is Mr. Baxter?
(BAXTER _appears at cupboard doorway_. BELINDA _hears him and gives a startled look round. She signs to him to go back. BAXTER retreats immediately and closes door_.)
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 (_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