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_).
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