John. She wagered me I wouldn't give her away, and of course—
Throughout his stay John hides the emotions he will not show behind a daring irony. Under its effects, Philip, on his right, walks about in a fury. Sir Wilfrid, sitting down on the edge of the table, is gay and undisturbed.
Philip. [Taking a step toward John.] You will oblige me—both of you—by immediately leaving—
John. [Smiling and going to Philip.] Oh, come, come, Judge—suppose I am here? Who has a better right to attend his wife's obsequies! Certainly, I come as a mourner—for you!
Sir Wilfrid. I say, is it the custom?
John. No, no—of course it's not the custom, no. But we'll make it the custom. After all,—what's a divorced wife among friends?
Philip. Sir, your humour is strained!
John. Humour,—Judge?
Philip. It is, sir, and I'll not be bantered! Your both being here is—it is—gentlemen, there is a decorum which the stars in their courses do not violate.
John. Now, Judge, never you mind what the stars do in their divorces! Get down to earth of the present day. Rufus Choate and Daniel Webster are dead. You must be modern. You must let peroration and poetry alone! Come along now. Why shouldn't I give the lady away?