Sir Wilfrid. [Leaning over her chair.] What do you want to look at 'em for? [Cynthia moves.] Let 'em be and listen to me! Sit down; for damme, I'm determined.
Cynthia. [Now at the table and half to herself.] I won't look at them! I won't think of them. Beasts! [Sir Wilfrid interposes between her and her view of John. Thomas opens the door and walks in.
Sir Wilfrid. Now, then— [He sits down.
Cynthia. Those two here! It's just as if Adam and Eve should invite the snake to their golden wedding. [Seeing Thomas.] What is it, what's the matter?
Thomas. Mr. Phillimore's excuses, ma'am. In a very short time— [Thomas goes out.
Sir Wilfrid. I'm on to you! You hoped for more buttons!
Cynthia. I'm dying of the heat; fan me.
[Sir Wilfrid fans Cynthia.
Sir Wilfrid. Heat! No! You're dying because you're ignorin' nature. Certainly you are! You're marryin' Phillimore! [Cynthia appears faint.] Can't ignore nature, Mrs. Karslake. Yes, you are; you're forcin' your feelin's. [Cynthia glances at him.] And what you want to do is to let yourself go a bit—up anchor and sit tight! I'm no seaman, but that's the idea! [Cynthia moves and shakes her head.] So just throw the reins on nature's neck, jump this fellow Phillimore and marry me!
[He leans toward Cynthia.