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!