Philip. But Karslake, my dear, is an old acquaintance of mine. He argues cases before me. I will see that you do not have to meet him.
[Cynthia walks the length of the room in excited dejection.
Matthew comes in. He is a High-church clergyman to a highly fashionable congregation. His success is partly due to his social position and partly to his elegance of speech, but chiefly to his inherent amiability, which leaves the sinner in happy peace and smiles on the just and unjust alike.
Matthew. [Most amiably.] Ah, my dear brother!
Philip. [Greeting him.] Matthew.
Matthew. [Nodding to Philip.] Good afternoon, my dear Cynthia. How charming you look! [Cynthia sits down at the tea-table. To Cynthia.] Ah, why weren't you in your pew yesterday? I preached a most original sermon.
[He lays his hat and cane on the divan.
Thomas. [Aside to Philip.] Sir, Mrs. Vida Phillimore's maid called you up on the telephone, and you're to expect Mrs. Phillimore on a matter of business.
Philip. [Astonished and disgusted.] Here, impossible! [To Cynthia.] Excuse me, my dear! [Philip, much embarrassed, goes out, followed by Thomas.
Matthew. [Approaching Cynthia's chair, happily and pleasantly self-important.] No, really, it was a wonderful sermon, my dear. My text was from Paul—"It is better to marry than to burn." It was a strictly logical sermon. I argued—that, as the grass withereth, and the flower fadeth,—there is nothing final in Nature; not even Death! And, as there is nothing final in Nature, not even Death;—so then if Death is not final—why should marriage be final? [Gently.] And so the necessity of—eh—divorce! You see? It was an exquisite sermon! All New York was there! And all New York went away happy! Even the sinners—if there were any! I don't often meet sinners—do you?