The Red House Mystery and Other Novels. A. A. Milne
Did you read _The Times_ this month on the new reviews!
BAXTER. Well!
DEVENISH. Oh, nothing. It just said, "Mr. Baxter's statistics are extremely suggestive." I haven't read them, so of course I don't know what you've been up to.
BAXTER (turning away in disgust). Pah!
DEVENISH. Poor old Baxter! (He wanders about the garden again, and, having picked a flower, comes to rest against one of the trees from which the hammock is swung. He leans against this and regards the flower thoughtfully.) Baxter--
BAXTER (crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep calling me "Baxter."
DEVENISH. Harold.
BAXTER. It is only by accident--an accident which we both deplore-- that we have met at all, and in any case I am a considerably older man than yourself.
DEVENISH. Mr. Baxter--father--I have a proposal to make. We will leave it to this beautiful flower to decide which of us the lady loves.
BAXTER (turning round). Eh?
DEVENISH (pulling off the petals). She loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter, she loves me, she loves Mr. Baxter--Heaven help her!--she loves me--
BELINDA (at the garden door.). What _are_ you doing, Mr. Devenish!
DEVENISH (throwing away the flower and bowing very low). My lady.
BAXTER (removing his bowler-hat stiffly). Good afternoon, Mrs. Tremayne.
(She gives her left hand to DEVENISH, who kisses it, and her right to BAXTER, who shakes it.)
BELINDA. How nice of you both to come!
BAXTER. Mr. Devenish and I are inseparable--apparently.
BELINDA. You haven't told me what you were doing, Mr. Devenish. Was it "This year, next year?" or "Silk, satin--"
DEVENISH. My lady, it was even more romantic than that. I have the honour to announce to your ladyship that Mr. Baxter is to be a sailor.
BELINDA (to BAXTER). Doesn't he talk nonsense?
BAXTER. He'll grow out of it. I did.
BELINDA. Oh, I hope not. I love talking nonsense, and I'm ever so old. (As they both start forward to protest) Now which one of you will say it first?
DEVENISH. You are as old as the stars and as young as the dawn.
BAXTER. You are ten years younger than I am.
BELINDA. What sweet things to say! I don't know which I like best.
DEVENISH. Where will my lady sit?
BELINDA. I will recline in the hammock, an it please thee, my lord-- only it's rather awkward getting in, Mr. Baxter. Perhaps you'd both better look at the tulips for a moment.
BAXTER. Oh--ah--yes. (He puts his hat on and turns his back to the hammock.)
DEVENISH (leaning over her). If only--
BELINDA. You'd better not say anything, Mr. Devenish. Keep it for your next volume. (He turns away.) One, two, three--that was better than last time. (They turn round to see her safely in the hammock. DEVENISH leans against the tree at her feet, and BAXTER draws the chair from the right side of the table and turns it round towards her. He presses his hat more firmly on and sits down.) I wonder if either of you can guess what I've been reading this afternoon!
DEVENISH (looking at her lovingly). I know.
BELINDA (giving him a fleeting look). How did you know? (to BAXTER). Yes, Mr. Baxter, it was your article I was reading. If you'd come five minutes earlier you'd have found me wrestling--I mean revelling in it.
BAXTER. I am very greatly honoured, Mrs. Tremayne. Ah--it seemed to me a very interesting curve showing the rise and fall of--
BELINDA. I hadn't got up to the curves. They _are_ interesting, aren't they? They are really more in Mr. Devenish's line. (To DEVENISH.) Mr. Devenish, it was a great disappointment to me that all the poems in your book seemed to be written to somebody else.
DEVENISH. It was before I met you, lady. They were addressed to the goddess of my imagination. It is only in these last few weeks that I have discovered her.
BELINDA. And discovered she was dark and not fair.
DEVENISH. She will be dark in my next volume.
BELINDA. Oh, how nice of her!
BAXTER (kindly). You should write a real poem to Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (excitedly). Oh do! "To Belinda." I don't know what rhymes, except cinder. You could say your heart was like a cinder--all burnt up.
DEVENISH (pained). Oh, my lady, I'm afraid that is a cockney rhyme.
BELINDA. How thrilling! I've never been to Hampstead Heath.
DEVENISH. "Belinda." It is far too beautiful to rhyme with anything but itself.
BELINDA. Fancy! But what about Tremayne? (Singing.) Oh, I am Mrs. Tremayne, and I don't want to marry again.
DEVENISH (protesting). My lady!
BAXTER (protesting). Belinda!
BELINDA (pointing excitedly to BAXTER). There, that's the first time he's called me Belinda!
DEVENISH. Are you serious?
BELINDA. Not as a rule.
DEVENISH. You're not going to marry again?
BELINDA. Well, who could I marry?
DEVENISH and BAXTER (together). Me!
BELINDA (dropping her eyes modestly). But this is England.
BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the right of age--of my greater years--to speak first.
DEVENISH. Mrs. Tremayne, I--
BELINDA (kindly to DEVENISH). You can speak afterwards, Mr. Devenish. It's so awkward when you both speak together.
BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am a man of substantial position, and perhaps I may say of some repute in serious circles. All that I have, whether of material or mental endowment, I lay at your feet, together with an admiration which I cannot readily put into words. As my wife I think you would be happy, and I feel that with you by my side I could achieve even greater things.
BELINDA. How sweet of you! But I ought to tell you that I'm no good at figures.
DEVENISH (protesting). My lady--
BELINDA. I don't mean what you mean, Mr. Devenish. You wait till it's your turn. (To BAXTER.) Yes?
BAXTER. I ask you to marry me, Belinda.
BELINDA (settling herself happily and closing her eyes). O-oh! ... Now it's _your_ turn, Mr. Devenish.
DEVENISH (excitedly). Money--thank Heaven, I have no money. Reputation--thank Heaven, I have no reputation. What can I offer you? Dreams--nothing but dreams. Come with me and I will show you the world through my dreams. What can I give you? Youth, freedom, beauty--