[Cynthia takes paper.
Cynthia. [After reading, near the table.] It's much worse in The Post. "John Karslake sells the former Mrs. Karslake's jewels—the famous necklace now at Tiffany's, and the sporty ex-husband sells his wife's portrait by Sargent!" Philip, I can't stand this. [Puts paper on the table.
Philip. Really, my dear, Mr. Karslake is bound to appear occasionally in print—or even you may have to meet him.
[Thomas comes in.
Cynthia. [Determined and distressed.] I won't meet him! I won't meet him. Every time I hear his name or "Cynthia K's" I'm so depressed.
Thomas. [Announcing with something like reluctance.] Sir, Mr. Fiddler. Mr. Karslake's trainer.
Fiddler walks in. He is an English horse trainer, a wide-awake, stocky, well-groomed little cockney. He knows his own mind and sees life altogether through a stable door. Well-dressed for his station, and not too young.
Cynthia. [Excited and disturbed.] Fiddler? Tim Fiddler? His coming is outrageous!
Fiddler. A note for you, sir.
Cynthia. [Impulsively.] Oh, Fiddler—is that you?