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). 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–!