John. [Still at the 'phone.] Hello! Yes—yes—Jack Karslake. Is that you, Clayton? Yes—yes—well—
Fiddler. Or if you like, sir, I'll give her—
John. [Turning on Fiddler.] Shut up! [To 'phone.] What was that? Not you—not you—a technical error? You mean to say that Mrs. Karslake is still—my—Hold the wire, Central—get off the wire! Get off the wire! Is that you, Clayton? Yes, yes—she and I are still—I got it! Good-bye! [He hangs up the receiver; falls back into a chair. For a moment he is overcome. He takes up telephone book.
Fiddler. All very well, Mr. Karslake, but I must know if I'm to give her—
John. [Turning over the leaves of the telephone book in hot haste.] What's Phillimore's number?
Fiddler. If you've no objections, I think I'll give her a—
John. L—M—N—O—P—It's too late! She's married by this! Married!—and—my God—I—I am the cause. Phillimore—
John. Give her wheatina!—give her grape-nuts—give her away! [Fiddler, biding his time, walks toward the window.] Only be quiet! Phillimore!
[Sir Wilfrid comes in.