DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!

DEVENISH. To _her_.

DELIA. But not to me?

DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!

DELIA (_with great dignity_). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson-- I mean, Tremayne.

DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much safer to call you Delia.

DELIA (_smiling_). Well, perhaps it is.

DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answered

DELIA (_sitting in the chair_ R. _of the table_). If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to wait till next April-----

DEVENISH (_moving up to behind table--reproachfully_). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the same afternoon. (_Turning quickly_.) You haven't really told me how you like it yet.

DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.

DEVENISH (_sitting at back of the table_). And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.

DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that.

DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but, of course, one has to think about posterity.

DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty to think about if you were a statesman.

DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry.

DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away every day and do great things, and then come home in the evening and tell me all about it.

DEVENISH. Then you _are_ thinking of marrying me!

DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.

DEVENISH (_he rises and taking her hands, raises her from the chair.

She backs a step to_ R.). Do. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here--(_he pulls her gently back. They both sit on the table. He places his arm round her waist_)--I _will_ be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.

DELIA. How nice of you!

DEVENISH (_magnificently, holding up his_ L. _hand to Heaven_). Farewell, Parna.s.sus!

DELIA (_pulling down his hand_). What does that mean?

DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.--(_she holds up her_ L. _hand admonishingly and he laughs apologetically _)--no, look here, that was quite accidental.

DELIA (_smiling at him_). I believe I shall really like you when I get to know you.

DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was three days ago.

DELIA. You _are_ different. (_They both rise from the table. She pulls him to_ R. _one step_.) Perhaps it's your sense of humour coming back.

DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.

DELIA (_pulling him towards the swing doors_). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly moon.

DEVENISH. Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that word before?

DELIA. What _do_ you mean?

DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet.

(DELIA _opens the doors_.)

Well, I'll come with you, but I shall refuse to look at it. (_Putting his_ L. _hand behind his back, he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself_) The Prime Minister then left the House.

(_They cross the windows at the back and go off_ L.)

(BELINDA _and_ TREMAYNE _come from the library, the latter holding the door for her to pa.s.s_.)

BELINDA (_moving below the settee across the room_). Thank you. I don't think it's unkind to leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.

TREMAYNE (_following her_). I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed.

BELINDA (_reaching the Chesterfield she puts her feet up. Her head it towards_ L.). Yes, but I was really thinking of Mr. Baxter.

TREMAYNE (_above table_ C.). Not of me?

BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's had a disappointment lately.

TREMAYNE (_coming to B. of the Chesterfield--eagerly_). A disappointment?

BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was--younger than I was.

TREMAYNE (_smiling to himself_). How old are you, Belinda?

BELINDA (_dropping her eyes_). Twenty-two. (_After a pause_.) He thought I was eighteen. Such a disappointment!

TREMAYNE (_smiling openly at her_). Belinda, how old are you?

BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.

TREMAYNE. The right age for what?

BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.

TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?