Fiddler. Against orders, ma'am.
Cynthia. Against orders?
Fiddler. You kicked it over, ma'am, the day you left us.
Cynthia. No wonder he hates me with the chair in that state! He nurses his wrath to keep it warm. So, after all, Fiddler, everything is changed, and that chair is the proof of it. I suppose Cynthia K is the only thing in the world that cares a whinney whether I'm alive or dead. [She breaks down and sobs.] How is she, Fiddler?
Fiddler. Off her oats, ma'am, this evening.
Cynthia. Off her oats! Well, she loves me, so I suppose she will die, or change, or—or something. Oh, she'll die, there's no doubt about that—she'll die. [Fiddler, who has been watching his chance, takes the key off the table while she is sobbing, tiptoes up stage, unlocks the door and goes out. After he has done so, Cynthia rises and dries her eyes.] There—I'm a fool—I must go—before—before—he—
[As she speaks her last word, John comes in swiftly.
John. Mrs. Karslake!
Cynthia. [Confused.] I—I—I just heard Cynthia K was ill— [John assents. Cynthia tries to put on a cheerful and indifferent manner.] I—I ran round—I—and—and— [Pausing, she turns and takes a few steps.] Well, I understand it's all over.
John. [Cheerfully.] Yes, it's all over.