DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that I once had the cheek to propose to her.
DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!
DEVENISH. To _her_.
DELIA. But not to me?
DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!
DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson-- I mean, Tremayne.
DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much safer to call you Delia.
DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is.
DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answered
DELIA. If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to wait till next April--
DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the same afternoon. You haven't really told me how you like it yet.
DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.
DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.
DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that.
DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but, of course, one has to think about posterity.
DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty to think about if you were a statesman.
DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry.
DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away every day and do great things, and then come home in the evening and tell me all about it.
DEVENISH. Then you _are_ thinking of marrying me!
DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.
DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here--I _will_ be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.
DELIA. How nice of you!
DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell, Parnassus!
DELIA. What does that mean?
DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.--no, look here, that was quite accidental.
DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I get to know you.
DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was three days ago.
DELIA. You _are_ different. Perhaps it's your sense of humour coming back.
DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.
DELIA (holding out her hand). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly moon.
DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that word before?
DELIA. What _do_ you mean?
DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I'll come with you, but I shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his back, he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime Minister then left the House.
[BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.]
BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don't think it's unkind to leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.
TREMAYNE. I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed.
BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was really thinking of Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE. Not of me?
BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's had a disappointment lately.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment?
BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was--younger than I was.
TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda?
BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He thought I was eighteen. Such a disappointment!
TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you?
BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.
TREMAYNE. The right age for what?
BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.
TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?
BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or--poetically?
TREMAYNE. I meant--
BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the--now, I must get this the right way round--as old as the--
TREMAYNE. I don't want to talk about Mr. Devenish.
BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does--except Mr. Devenish. As old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself cosily.) I think that's rather a nice age to be, don't you?
TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be.
BELINDA. It's a pity he's thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss that sort of thing rather. You don't say those sort of things about your aunt-in-law--not so often.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson!
BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now, comparing her to Diana.
TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts for _him. _Now what about Baxter?
BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I was four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the "Encyclopedia Britannica."
TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the neighbourhood?
BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn't it awful? I've only had those two for the last three weeks.
(TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.)
TREMAYNE. Belinda.
BELINDA. Yes, Henry!
TREMAYNE. My name is John.
BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks they can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what their own names are. You were saying, John?
TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack.
BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That's the man who always goes away so quickly. I hope you're making more of a stay?
TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman!
BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do nothing but say "Belinda."
TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved