Cynthia. [Diverted at last from her own distress.] I hope not!
Sir Wilfrid. Oh, I will later! It's not time yet! As I was saying—
Cynthia. And pray, Sir Wilfrid, when will it be time?
Sir Wilfrid. As soon as I see you have a w'im for me! [Rising, looks at his watch.] And now, I'll tell you what we'll do! We've got just an hour to get there in, my motor's on the corner, and in fifty minutes we'll be at Belmont Park.
Cynthia. [Her sporting blood fired.] Belmont Park!
Sir Wilfrid. We'll do the races, and dine at Martin's—
Cynthia. [Tempted.] Oh, if I only could! I can't! I've got to be married! You're awfully nice; I've almost got a "w'im" for you already.
Sir Wilfrid. [Delighted.] There you are! I'll send a telegram! [She shakes her head. He sits and writes at the table.
Cynthia. No, no, no!
Sir Wilfrid. [Reading what he has written.] "Off with Cates-Darby to Races. Please postpone ceremony till seven-thirty."