COMTESSE. It seems to be no joke to you, Mr. Shand. Sybil, my pet, are you to let him off?
SYBIL [flashing]. Let him off? If he wishes it. Do you?
JOHN [manfully]. I want it to go on. [Something seems to have caught in his throat: perhaps it is the impediment trying a temporary home.] It’s the one wish of my heart. If you come with me, Sybil, I’ll do all in a man’s power to make you never regret it.
[Triumph of the Vere de Veres.]
MAGGIE [bringing them back to earth with a dump]. And I can make my arrangements for Wednesday?
SYBIL [seeking the COMTESSE’s protection]. No, you can’t. Auntie, I am not going on with this. I’m very sorry for you, John, but I see now—I couldn’t face it—-
[She can’t face anything at this moment except the sofa pillows.]
COMTESSE [noticing JOHN’S big sigh of relief]. So THAT is all right, Mr. Shand!
MAGGIE. Don’t you love her any more, John? Be practical.
SYBIL [to the pillows]. At any rate I have tired of him. Oh, best to tell the horrid truth. I am ashamed of myself. I have been crying my eyes out over it—I thought I was such a different kind of woman. But I am weary of him. I think him—oh, so dull.