Kit. Well, I was a fool. I said something, quite by chance, about your father. Then the fur began to fly. You see, it seems he thought your mother was a widow—
Sydney. [Ruffling up] What’s it got to do with him?
Kit. Well, you see—
Sydney. If you’d only make me see instead of you-seeing me all the time.
Kit. I’m afraid of hurting your feelings.
Sydney. I’m not nineteenth century.
Kit. [Desperately] Well, my people are.
Sydney. Well?
Kit. That’s the trouble—my people are! Father promptly began about not seeing his way to—
Sydney. To what, Kit?