Sir Wilfrid. [Rising with her.] That's it!—You're over! [He suggests with his right hand the movement of a horse taking a hurdle.
Vida. [Very sweetly.] You don't really mean—
Sir Wilfrid. [Carried away for the moment by so much true womanliness.] I mean, I stayed awake for an hour last night, thinkin' about you.
Vida. [Speaking to be contradicted.] But, you've just told me—that Cynthia—
Sir Wilfrid. [Admitting the fact.] Well, she did—she did bowl my wicket, but so did you—
Vida. [Taking him very gently to task.] Don't you think there's a limit to— [She sits down.
Sir Wilfrid. [Roused by so much loveliness of soul.] Now, see here, Mrs. Phillimore! You and I are not bottle babies, eh, are we? You've been married and—I—I've knocked about, and we both know there's a lot of stuff talked about—eh, eh, well, you know:—the one and only—that a fellow can't be awfully well smashed by two at the same time, don't you know! All rubbish! You know it, and the proof of the puddin's in the eatin', I am!
Vida. [With gentle reproach.] May I ask where I come in?
Sir Wilfrid. Well, now, Mrs. Phillimore, I'll be frank with you, Cynthia's my favourite, but you're runnin' her a close second in the popular esteem!
Vida. [Laughing, determined not to take offense.] What a delightful, original, fantastic person you are!