Sir Wilfrid. Few months of moonshine! Never was a friend to a woman—thank God, in all my life.
Cynthia. Oh—oh, oh!
Sir Wilfrid. Might as well talk about being a friend to a whiskey-and-soda.
Cynthia. A woman has a soul, Sir Wilfrid.
Sir Wilfrid. Well, good whiskey is spirits—dozens o' souls!
Cynthia. You are so gross!
Sir Wilfrid. [Changing his seat for one at the tea-table.] Gross? Not a bit! Friendship between the sexes is all fudge! I'm no friend to a rose in my garden. I don't call it friendship—eh—eh—a warm, starry night, moonbeams and ilex trees, "and a spirit who knows how" and all that—eh— [Getting closer to her.] You make me feel awfully poetical, you know— [Philip comes toward them, glances nervously at Cynthia and Sir Wilfrid, and walks away again.] What's the matter? But, I say—poetry aside—do you, eh—— [Looking around to place Philip.] Does he—y'know—is he—does he go to the head?
Cynthia. Sir Wilfrid, Mr. Phillimore is my sober second choice.
Sir Wilfrid. Did you ever kiss him? I'll bet he fined you for contempt of court. Look here, Mrs. Karslake, if you're marryin' a man you don't care about—
Cynthia. [Amused and excusing his audacity as a foreigner's eccentricity.] Really!