NTHIA. A woman has a soul, Sir Wilfrid.

SIR WILFRID. Well, good whiskey is spirits--dozens o' souls!

CYNTHIA. You are so gross!

SIR WILFRID. [_Changing his seat for one at the tea-table._] Gross?
Not a bit! Friendship between the sexes is all fudge! I'm no friend to
a rose in my garden. I don't call it friendship--eh--eh--a warm,
starry night, moonbeams and ilex trees, "and a spirit who knows how"
and all that--eh-- [_Getting closer to her._] You make me feel awfully
poetical, you know-- [PHILIP _comes toward them, glances nervously at_
CYNTHIA _and_ SIR WILFRID, _and walks away again._] What's the matter?
But, I say--poetry aside--do you, eh---- [_Looking around to place_
PHILIP.] Does he--y'know--is he--does he go to the head?

CYNTHIA. Sir Wilfrid, Mr. Phillimore is my sober second choice.

SIR WILFRID. Did you ever kiss him? I'll bet he fined you for contempt
of court. Look here, Mrs. Karslake, if you're marryin' a man you don't
care about--

CYNTHIA. [_Amused and excusing his audacity as a foreigner's
eccentricity._] Really!

SIR WILFRID. Well, I don't offer myself--

CYNTHIA. Oh!

SIR WILFRID. Not this instant--

CYNTHIA. Ah!

SIR WILFRID. But let me drop in to-morrow at ten.

CYNTHIA. What country and state of affairs do you think you have
landed in?

SIR WILFRID. New York, by Jove! Been to school, too. New York is
bounded on the North, South, East and West by the state of Divorce!
Come, come, Mrs. Karslake, I like your country. You've no fear and no
respect--no cant and lots of can. Here you all are, you see--your
former husband, and your new husband's former wife--sounds like
Ollendoff! Eh? So there you are, you see! But, jokin' apart--why do
you marry him? Oh, well, marry him if you must! You can run around the
corner and get a divorce afterwards--

CYNTHIA. I believe you think they throw one in with an ice-cream soda!

SIR WILFRID. [_Rising._] Damme, my dear lady, a marriage in your
country is no more than a--eh--eh--what do you call 'em? A thank you,
ma'am. That's what an American marriage is--a thank you, ma'am.
Bump--bump--you're over it and on to the next.

CYNTHIA. You're an odd fish! What? I believe I like you!

SIR WILFRID. 'Course you do! You'll see me when I call to-morrow--at
ten? We'll run down to Belmont Park, eh?

CYNTHIA. Don't be absurd!

VIDA. [_Has finished her talk with_ JOHN, _and breaks in on_ SIR
WILFRID, _who has hung about_ CYNTHIA _too long to suit her._]
T