BAXTER. You've had a husband all the time?
BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn't my fault.
BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don't know where I am. I gather—I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible as a possible wife?
BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this is very confusing—this is very disturbing to a man of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a—a possible benedict. I have—ah—taken steps. Only this morning, in writing to my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at any moment a most startling announcement.
DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that's all right. That might only mean that you were getting a new bowler-hat.
BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you take this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes clear to me. You have transferred your affections to her daughter!
DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude.
BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made me very happy.
BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne!