Vida. [As before.] Won't you sit down?
Cynthia. [Agitated and suspicious.] Thanks, no—That is, yes, thanks. Yes! You haven't answered my question?
[Cynthia waves her hand through the haze; glances suspiciously at the smoke, and looks about for the cigarette.
Vida. [Playing innocence in the first degree.] My dear, what makes you imagine that any one's here!
Cynthia. You've been smoking.
Vida. Oh, puffing away! [Cynthia sees the glasses.
Cynthia. And drinking—a pair of drinks? [Her eyes lighting on John's gloves on the table at her elbow.] Do they fit you, dear? [Vida smiles; Cynthia picks up the crop and looks at it and reads her own name.] "Jack, from Cynthia."
Vida. [Without taking the trouble to double for a mere woman.] Yes, dear; it's Mr. Karslake's crop, but I'm happy to say he left me a few minutes ago.
Cynthia. He left the house? [Vida smiles.] I wanted to see him.
Vida. [With a shade of insolence.] To quarrel?