Baxter.
TREMAYNE (_above table_ C.). Not of me?
BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's had a
disappointment lately.
TREMAYNE (_coming to B. of the Chesterfield--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.
BELINDA (_with a sigh_). Nobody ever does--except Mr. Devenish. As
old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (_Settling herself
cosily_.) I think that's rather a nice age to be, don't you?
TREMAYNE.
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