Cynthia. [Naturally, but with irritation.] You propose to me here, at a moment like this? When I'm on the last lap—just in sight of the goal—the gallows—the halter—the altar, I don't know what its name is! No, I won't have you! [Looking toward Karslake and Vida.] And I won't have you stand near me! I won't have you talking to me in a low tone! [Her eyes glued on John and Vida.] Stand over there—stand where you are.
Sir Wilfrid. I say—
Cynthia. I can hear you—I'm listening!
Sir Wilfrid. Well, don't look so hurried and worried. You've got buttons and buttons of time. And now my offer. You haven't yet said you would—
Cynthia. Marry you? I don't even know you!
Sir Wilfrid. [Feeling sure of being accepted.] Oh,—tell you all about myself. I'm no duke in a pickle o' debts, d'ye see? I can marry where I like. Some o' my countrymen are rotters, ye know. They'd marry a monkey, if poppa-up-the-tree had a corner in cocoanuts! And they do marry some queer ones, y' know. [Cynthia looks beyond him, exclaims and turns. Sir Wilfrid turns.
Cynthia. Do they?
Sir Wilfrid. Oh, rather. That's what's giving your heiresses such a bad name lately. If a fellah's in debt he can't pick and choose, and then he swears that American gals are awfully fine lookers, but they're no good when it comes to continuin' the race! Fair dolls in the drawin'-room, but no good in the nursery.
Cynthia. [Thinking of John and Vida and nothing else.] I can see Vida in the nursery.
Sir Wilfrid. You understand when you want a brood mare, you don't choose a Kentucky mule.