I know.
BELINDA (_giving him a fleeting look_). How did you know?
DEVENISH. Well, I-----
BELINDA (_to_ BAXTER). Yes, Mr. Baxter, it was your article I was
reading. If you'd come five minutes earlier you'd have found me
wrestling--I mean revelling in it.
BAXTER. I am very greatly honoured, Mrs. Tremayne. Ah--it seemed to me a
very interesting curve showing the rise and fall of-----
BELINDA. I hadn't got up to the curves. They _are_ interesting,
aren't they? They are really more in Mr. Devenish's line. (_To_
DEVENISH.) Mr. Devenish, it was a great disappointment to me that all
the poems in your book seemed to be written to somebody else.
DEVENISH. It was before I met you, lady. They were addressed to the
goddess of my imagination. It is only in these last few weeks that I
have discovered her.
BELINDA. And discovered she was dark and not fair.
DEVENISH. She will be dark in my next volume.
BELINDA. Oh, how nice of her!
BAXTER (_kindly_). You should write a real poem to Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (_excitedly_). Oh do! "To Belinda." I don't know what
rhymes, except cinder. You could say your heart was like a cinder--all
burnt up.
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