TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story!
BELINDA. Yes, darling; it's really much more extraordinary than that. I think perhaps I'd better tell you the rest of it another time. (Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you. (TREMAYNE pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You shouldn't have left Chelsea, darling.
TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn't.
BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn't. (After a pause.) I—I've got another little surprise for you if—if you're ready for it. (Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be wearing white. I shall certainly stand up while I'm telling you. (Modestly.) Darling, we have a daughter—our little Delia.
TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson.
BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes one's father's name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson.
TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you—oh, never mind about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and not tell me?
BELINDA. You forget how you'd slammed the door. It isn't the sort of thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to America.
TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don't let me ever go away again.
BELINDA. I'm not going to, Jack. I'm going to settle down into a staid old married woman.