come.

TREMAYNE Oh no, you aren't.

BELINDA (marking it off on her fingers). Just a little bit--that much.

TREMAYNE. It would be much more surprising if I hadn't come.

BELINDA (sitting down on the sofa). It is a pretty garden, isn't it?

TREMAYNE (sitting down next 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. And
then you're coming to dinner again to-night.

TREMAYNE (eagerly). Am I?

BELINDA. Yes. Haven't you been asked?

TREMAYNE. 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. 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." (Prosaically.) I do hope you like lamb?

TREMAYNE. I adore it.

BELINDA. Oh, I'm so glad! 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. 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. 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. Who is Mr. Baxter?

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, umbrellas and things. Don't let's talk about him.

TREMAYNE. All right, then; 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, 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." The Lute of Love--(To herself.) I haven't been saying
that lately. (With great expression.) The Lute of Love--th