Cynthia. Crazy! Crazy!
John. [Ready to take the opposite view.] I don't see it. With her record she ought to have romped it an easy winner.
Cynthia. [Her sporting instinct asserting itself.] She hasn't the stamina! Look at her barrel!
John. Well, anyhow, Geranium finished me!
Cynthia. You didn't lay odds on Geranium!
John. Why not? She's my own mare—
Cynthia. Oh!
John. Streak o' bad luck—
Cynthia. [Plainly anxious to say "I told you so."] Streak of poor judgment! Do you remember the day you rode Billy at a six-foot stone wall, and he stopped and you didn't, and there was a hornet's nest [Matthew rises.] on the other side, and I remember you were hot just because I said you showed poor judgment? [She laughs at the memory. A general movement of disapproval. She remembers the situation.] I beg your pardon.
Matthew. [Rises to meet Vida. Hastily.] It seems to me that horses are like the fourth gospel. Any conversation about them becomes animated almost beyond the limits of the urbane! [Vida, disgusted by such plainness of speech, rises and goes to Philip who waves her to a chair.