TREMAYNE. It would be much more surprising if I hadn't come. BELINDA (_crossing to the Chesterfield, picking up her book and handing it to_ TREMAYNE, _who puts it on the table_). It is a pretty garden, isn't it? (_She sits on_ R. _end of Chesterfield_.) TREMAYNE (_coming to her_). You forget that I saw the garden yesterday. BELINDA. Oh, but the things have grown so much since then. Let me see, this is the third day you've been and we only met three days ago. (_He moves behind the 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_.)