John. [Gravely.] Oh, wouldn't you?
Cynthia. But I don't think you showed good taste in engaging yourselves here.
John. Of course, I should have preferred a garden of roses and plenty of twilight.
Cynthia. [Rushing into speech.] I'll tell you what you have done—you've thrown yourself away! A woman like that! No head, no heart! All languor and loose—loose frocks—she's the typical, worst thing America can do! She's the regular American marriage worm!
John. I have known others—
Cynthia. [Quickly.] Not me. I'm not a patch on that woman. Do you know anything about her life? Do you know the things she did to Philip? Kept him up every night of his life—forty days out of every thirty—and then, without his knowing it, put brandy in his coffee to make him lively at breakfast.
John. [Banteringly.] I begin to think she is just the woman—
Cynthia. [Unable to quiet her jealousy.] She is not the woman for you! A man with your bad temper—your airs of authority—your assumption of—of—everything. What you need is a good, old-fashioned, bread-poultice woman!
[Cynthia comes to a full stop and faces him.
John. [Sharply.] Can't say I've had any experience of the good old-fashioned bread-poultice.