BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight.
BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that—er—perhaps—
DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson.
(TREMAYNE looks at BELINDA, who gives him a nod.)
TREMAYNE. It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is no chance of a nightingale?
BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr. Devenish. (DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles herself comfortably on the sofa.) Now we're together again. Well, Mr. Devenish?
DEVENISH. Er—I—
BELINDA. No; I think I'll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he's longing to.
BAXTER. Yes. H'r'm! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your hand.
BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter?