Cynthia. I don't care what you say! If you marry Vida Phillimore—you sha'n't do it. [Tears of rage choking her.] No, I liked your father and, for his sake, I'll see that his son doesn't make a donkey of himself a second time.
John. [Too angry to be amused.] Oh, I thought I was divorced. I begin to feel as if I had you on my hands still.
Cynthia. You have! You shall have! If you attempt to marry her, I'll follow you—and I'll find her—I'll tell Vida— [He turns to her.] I will. I'll tell Vida just what sort of a dance you led me.
John. [Quickly on her last word but speaking gravely.] Indeed! Will you? And why do you care what happens to me?
Cynthia. [Startled by his tone.] I—I—ah—
John. [Insistently and with a faint hope.] Why do you care?
Cynthia. I don't. Not in your sense—
John. How dare you then pretend—
Cynthia. I don't pretend.
John. [Interrupting her; proud, serious and strong.] How dare you look me in the face with the eyes that I once kissed, and pretend the least regard for me? [Cynthia recoils and looks away. Her own feelings are revealed to her clearly for the first time.] I begin to understand our American women now. Fire-flies—and the fire they gleam with is so cold that a midge couldn't warm his heart at it, let alone a man. You're not of the same race as a man! You married me for nothing, divorced me for nothing, because you are nothing!