John. [Again at the table, shows, and from now on continues to show, his true feelings for her.] How does it go?
Cynthia. [Faintly.] It goes all right. Thanks!
[Hardly eating at all.
John. You always used to like anchovy. [Cynthia nods and eats.] Claret? [Cynthia shakes her head.] Oh, but you must!
Cynthia. [Tremulously.] Ever so little. [He fills her glass and then his.] Thanks!
John. Here's to old times! [Raising his glass.
Cynthia. [Very tremulous.] Please not!
John. Well, here's to your next husband.
Cynthia. [Very tenderly.] Don't!
John. Oh, well, then, what shall the toast be?