Philip. [With complacent dignity.] I don't see why not. You must assuredly do one or the other: You must either let your heart choose or your head select.
Cynthia. [Gravely.] No, there's a third scheme: Sir Wilfrid explained the theory to me. A woman should marry whenever she has a whim for the man, and then leave the rest to the man. Do you see?
Philip. [Furious.] Do I see? Have I ever seen any thing else? Marry for whim! That's the New York idea of marriage.
Cynthia. [Observing cynically.] New York ought to know.
Philip. Marry for whim and leave the rest to the divorce court! Marry for whim and leave the rest to the man. That was the former Mrs. Phillimore's idea. Only she spelled "whim" differently; she omitted the "w." [He rises in his anger.] And now you—you take up with this preposterous— [Cynthia moves uneasily.] But, nonsense! It's impossible! A woman of your mental calibre—No. Some obscure, primitive, female feeling is at work corrupting your better judgment! What is it you feel?
Cynthia. Philip, you never felt like a fool, did you?
Philip. No, never.
Cynthia. [Politely.] I thought not.
Philip. No, but whatever your feelings, I conclude you are ready to marry me.
Cynthia. [Uneasy.] Of course, I came back. I am here, am I not?