Cynthia. Three things! I make it seven!
Sir Wilfrid. Yes, my dear, but the point is, will you be mistress of Traynham?
Cynthia. [Who has only half listened to him.] No, Sir Wilfrid, thank you, I won't. [She turns to see John walk across the drawing-room with Vida, and apparently absorbed in what she is saying.] It's outrageous!
Sir Wilfrid. Eh? Why you're cryin'?
Cynthia. [Almost sobbing.] I am not.
Sir Wilfrid. You're not crying because you're in love with me?
Cynthia. I'm not crying—or if I am, I'm crying because I love my country. It's a disgrace to America—cast-off husbands and wives getting together in a parlour and playing tag under a palm-tree. [John, with intention and determined to stab Cynthia, kisses Vida's hand.
Sir Wilfrid. Eh! Oh! I'm damned! [To Cynthia.] What do you think that means?
Cynthia. I don't doubt it means a wedding here, at once—after mine! [Vida and John leave the drawing-room and walk slowly toward them.
Vida. [Affecting an impossible intimacy to wound Cynthia and tantalize Sir Wilfrid.] Hush, Jack—I'd much rather no one should know anything about it until it's all over!