John. Oh, well—it's different now. [Cynthia moves and sits down, near the upset chair. There is a long pause, during which John thoughtfully paces the room.] You don't mind if I smoke?
Cynthia. [Shaking her head.] No.
John. [Lighting his pipe and sitting down on the arm of a chair.] Of course, if you find my presence painful, I'll—skiddoo.
He indicates the door. Cynthia shakes her head. John smokes his pipe and remains seated.
Cynthia. [Suddenly and quickly.] It's just simply a fact, Karslake, and that's all there is to it—if a woman has once been married—that is, the first man she marries—then—she may quarrel, she may hate him—she may despise him—but she'll always be jealous of him with other women. Always! [John takes this as if he were simply glad to have the information.
John. Oh—H'm! ah—yes—yes.
Cynthia. [After a pause.] You probably felt jealous of Phillimore.
John. [Reasonably, sweetly, and in doubt.] N-o! [Apologetically.] I felt simply: Let him take his medicine.
Cynthia. Oh!
John. I beg your pardon—I meant—