Cynthia. [Absent-mindedly.] Horses—how are the horses?
[Throughout her talk with Fiddler she gives the idea that she is saying good-bye to her life with John.
Fiddler. Ah, when husband and wife splits, ma'am, it's the horses that suffer. Oh, yes, ma'am, we're all changed since you give us the go-by,—even the guv'nor.
Cynthia. How's he changed?
Fiddler. Lost his sharp for horses, and ladies, ma'am—gives 'em both the boiled eye.
Cynthia. I can't say I see any change; there's my portrait—I suppose he sits and pulls faces at me.
Fiddler. Yes, ma'am, I think I'd better tell him of your bein' here.
Cynthia. [Gently but decidedly.] No, Fiddler, no! [Again looking about her.] The room's in a terrible state of disorder. However, your new mistress will attend to that. [Pause.] Why, that's not her hat!
Fiddler. Yours, ma'am.
Cynthia. Mine? [Walking to the table to look at it.] Is that my work-basket? [After a pause.] My gloves? [Fiddler assents.] And I suppose— [Hurriedly going to the writing-table.] My—yes, there it is: my wedding ring!—just where I dropped it! Oh, oh, oh, he keeps it like this—hat, gloves, basket and ring, everything just as it was that crazy, mad day when I— [She glances at Fiddler and breaks off.] But for heaven's sake, Fiddler, set that chair on its feet!