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.