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.
Devenish (pained). Oh, my lady, I'm afraid that is a cockney rhyme.
Belinda. How thrilling! I've never been to Hampstead Heath.