DELIA. I think he's going to be awfully nice. (_She kisses_ BELINDA _and rises_.) Does he _know_ you know? BELINDA. Not yet. DELIA. Oh! (_She moves to the fireplace and warms her hands_.) BELINDA. Just at present I've rather got Mr. Baxter on my mind. I suppose, darling, you wouldn't like him as well as Mr. Devenish! (_Pathetically_.) You see, they're so used to going about together. DELIA. Claude is quite enough. BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind if I have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them. I'll give you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (_She jumps up and goes to_ DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be happy too? That's what mothers always say on the stage. I think it's so sweet. (_They move together to below table_.) DELIA (_smiling at her_). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I'm not romantic like you. I expect I'm more like father, really. BELINDA (_dreamily_). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me this morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was telling him. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit like a father. Of course, he doesn't know he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take him into the garden; only don't let him know who he is. You see, he ought to propose to me first, oughtn't he? (_The men come in from_ R. TREMAYNE _goes to the foot of the settee R., DEVENISH to the back of the table up_ R., _while_ BAXTER _stands at the back of the settee_. BELINDA _moves to the front of the settee and DELIA sits on the table_.) Here you all are! I do hope you haven't been throwing away your cigars, because smoking is allowed all over the house. TREMAYNE (_as he comes to the foot of the settee_). Oh, we've finished, thank you. BELINDA (_going up to the swing doors and opening them_). Isn't it a wonderful night?--and so warm for April. Delia, you must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight--it's the only light he hasn't seen it by. DEVENISH (_quickly coming to_ R. _back of table_ C.). I don't think I've ever seen it by moonlight, Miss Delia. BELINDA (_coming down a little_). I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight. BAXTER (_moving toward_ BELINDA). I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that--er--perhaps----- DELIA (_moving quickly to above_ TREMAYNE _and taking his_ L. _hand, and pulling him up stage to swing doors_). Come along, Mr. Robinson. (TREMAYNE _looks at_ BELINDA, _who gives him a nod_. BELINDA _then moves down_ R.) TREMAYNE (L. _of_ DELIA). It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is no chance of a nightingale? BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr. Devenish.