Philip. I saw how much it shocked your delicacy.
Cynthia. [Distressed and moved.] Outrageous.
[Philip sits down.
Philip. Do be seated, Cynthia. [Taking up the paper. Quietly.] Very odd sort of an Englishman—that Cates-Darby!
Cynthia. Sir Wilfrid?—Oh, yes! [Philip settles down to the paper. To herself.] Outrageous! I've a great mind to go at eleven—just as I said I would!
Philip. Do sit down, Cynthia!
Cynthia. What? What?
Philip. You make me so nervous—
Cynthia. Sorry—sorry. [She sits down and, seeing the paper, takes it, looking at the picture of John Karslake.
Philip. [Sighing with content.] Ah! now that I see him, I don't wonder you couldn't stand him. There's a kind of—ah—spontaneous inebriety about him. He is incomprehensible! If I might with reverence cross-question the Creator, I would say to him: "Sir, to what end or purpose did you create Mr. John Karslake?" I believe I should obtain no adequate answer! However, [Sighs.] at last we have peace—and The Post! [Philip, settling himself, reads his paper; Cynthia, glancing at her paper, occasionally looks across at Philip.] Forget the dust of the arena—the prolixity of counsel—the involuntary fatuity of things in general. [After a pause, he goes on with his reading.] Compose yourself!