Vida. [Cheerful and unconstrained.] He's not my husband!
Sir Wilfrid. [Completely confused.] Oh—eh?—my brain must be boiled. You are—Mrs.—eh—ah—of course, now I see! I got the wrong names! I thought you were Mrs. Phillimore. [Sitting down by her.] And that nice girl, Mrs. Karslake! You're deucedly lucky to be Mrs. Karslake. John's a prime sort. I say, have you and he got any kids? How many?
Vida. [Horrified at being suspected of maternity, but speaking very sweetly.] He's not my husband.
Sir Wilfrid. [His good spirits all gone, but determined to clear things up.] Phew! Awfully hot in here! Who the deuce is John's wife?
Vida. He hasn't any.
Sir Wilfrid. Who's Phillimore's wife?
Sir Wilfrid. Thanks, fearfully! [To Matthew, whom he approaches; suspecting himself of having lost his wits.] Would you excuse me, my dear and Reverend Sir—you're a churchman and all that—would you mind straightening me out?
Matthew. [Most graciously.] Certainly, Sir Wilfrid. Is it a matter of doctrine?
Sir Wilfrid. Oh, damme—beg your pardon,—no, it's not words, it's women.