Cynthia. Oh, no, it's impossible!
Sir Wilfrid. [Accustomed to have things go his way.] No more than breathin'! You can't get a w'im for me, you know, unless we're together, so together we'll be! [John Karslake opens the door, and, unnoticed, walks into the room.] And to-morrow you'll wake up with a jolly little w'im—, [Reading.] "Postpone ceremony till seven-thirty." There. [He puts on her cloak and turning, sees John.] Hello!
John. [Surly.] Hello! Sorry to disturb you.
Sir Wilfrid. [Cheerful as possible.] Just the man! [Giving him the telegraph form.] Just step round and send it, my boy. Thanks! [John reads it.
Cynthia. No, no, I can't go!
Sir Wilfrid. Cockety-coo-coo-can't. I say, you must!
Cynthia. [Positively.] No!
John. [Astounded.] Do you mean you're going—
Sir Wilfrid. [Very gay.] Off to the races, my boy!
John. [Angry and outraged.] Mrs. Karslake can't go with you there!