Cynthia. No.
John. That's the rumbling of the early milk wagons.
Cynthia. Oh, Jack.
John. Do you recognize it now?
Cynthia. Do I? We used to hear that—just at the hour, didn't we—when we came back from awfully jolly late suppers and things!
Cynthia. It must be fearfully late. I must go.
She rises and moves to the chair where she has left her cloak. She sees that John will not help her and puts it on herself.
John. Oh, don't go—why go?
Cynthia. [Embarrassed and agitated.] All good things come to an end, you know.