Sir Wilfrid. [Pricking his American cousin's pet vanity.] Come, come, Judge—you Americans have no sense of humour. [Taking a small jewel-case from his pocket.] There's my regards for the lady—and [Reasonably.], if I must go, I will. Of course, I would like to see her, but—if it isn't your American custom—
Thomas. [Opens the door and announces.] Mr. Karslake.
Sir Wilfrid. Oh, well, I say; if he can come, I can!
John Karslake, in evening dress, comes in quickly, carrying a large and very smart bride's bouquet, which he hands to Philip, who stands transfixed. Because it never occurs to him to refuse it or chuck it away, Philip accepts the bouquet gingerly, but frees himself of it at the first available moment. John walks to the centre of the room. Deep down he is feeling wounded and unhappy. But, as he knows his coming to the ceremony on whatever pretext is a social outrage, he carries it off by assuming an air of its being the most natural thing in the world. He controls the expression of his deeper emotion, but the pressure of this keeps his face grave, and he speaks with effort.
John. My compliments to the bride, Judge.
Philip. [Angry.] And you, too, have the effrontery?
Sir Wilfrid. There you are!
John. [Pretending ease.] Oh, call it friendship—
[Thomas leaves.
Philip. [Puts bouquet on table. Ironically.] I suppose Mrs. Karslake—