Cynthia. [At this moment, just as she reaches Philip, stops, faces round, looks him, Matthew, and the rest in the face, and cries out in despair.] Thomas! Call a hansom! [Thomas goes out, leaving the door open. Miss Heneage crosses the room quickly; Mrs. Phillimore, shocked into action, rises. Cynthia catches up her cloak from the table. Philip turns and Cynthia comes forward and stops.] I can't, Philip—I can't. [Whistle of hansom is heard off; the organ stops.] It is simply a case of throwing the reins on nature's neck—up anchor—and sit tight! [Matthew moves to Cynthia.] Matthew, don't come near me! Yes, yes, I distrust you. It's your business, and you'd marry me if you could.
Philip. [Watching her in dismay as she throws on her cloak.] Where are you going?
Cynthia. I'm going to Jack.
Philip. What for?
Cynthia. To stop his marrying Vida. I'm blowing a hurricane inside, a horrible, happy hurricane! I know myself—I know what's the matter with me. If I married you and Miss Heneage—what's the use of talking about it—he mustn't marry that woman. He sha'n't. [Cynthia has now all her wraps on and walks toward the door rapidly. To Philip.] Sorry! So long! Good-night and see you later.
Reaching the door, she goes out in blind haste and without further ceremony. Matthew, in absolute amazement, throws up his arms. Philip is rigid. Mrs. Phillimore sinks into a chair. Miss Heneage stands supercilious and unmoved. Grace, the same. The choir, at Matthew's gesture, mistakes it for the concerted signal, and bursts lustily into the Epithalamis:
"Enduring love—sweet end of strife!
Oh, bless this happy man and wife!"
Curtain.