He wrote "The Lute of Love and other Poems,
by Claude Devenish."
(TREMAYNE _is annoyed and turns away to the fireplace_.)
The Lute of Love--(_To herself_.) I haven't been saying that
lately. (_With great expression_.) The Lute of Love--the Lute.
(_She pats her mouth back_.)
TREMAYNE. And who is Mr. Devenish--!
BELINDA (_putting her hand on his sleeve_). You'll let me know when
it's my turn, won't you?
TREMAYNE. Your turn?
BELINDA. Yes, to ask questions. I love this game--it's just like clumps.
(_She crosses her hands on her lap and waits for the next
question_.)
TREMAYNE. I beg your pardon. I--er--of course have no right to cross-
examine you like this.
BELINDA. Oh, do go on, I love it. (_With childish excitement_.)
I've got my question ready.
TREMAYNE (_smiling and going and sitting beside her again_). I
think perhaps it _is_ your turn.
BELINDA (_eagerly_). Is it really? (_He nods_.) Well then--
(_in a loud voice_)--who is Mr. Robinson?
TREMAYNE (_alarmed_). What?
BELINDA. I think it's a fair question. I met you three days ago and you
told me you were staying at Mariton.
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