SIR WILFRID. Thanks, fearfully! [_To_ MATTHEW, _whom he approaches; suspecting himself of having lost his wits._] Would you excuse me, my dear and Reverend Sir--you're a churchman and all that--would you mind straightening me out? MATTHEW. [_Most graciously._] Certainly, Sir Wilfrid. Is it a matter of doctrine? SIR WILFRID. Oh, damme--beg your pardon,--no, it's not words, it's women. MATTHEW. [_Ready to be outraged._] Women! SIR WILFRID. It's divorce. Now, the lady on the sofa-- MATTHEW. _Was_ my brother's wife; he divorced her--incompatibility--Rhode Island. The lady at the tea-table _was_ Mr. Karslake's wife; she divorced him--desertion--Sioux Falls. One moment--she is about to marry my brother. SIR WILFRID. [_Cheerful again._] I'm out! Thought I never would be! Thanks! [VIDA _laughs._ VIDA. [_Not a whit discountenanced and ready to please._] Have you got me straightened out yet? SIR WILFRID. Straight as a die! I say, you had lots of fun, didn't you? [_Returning to his position by the sofa._] And so _she's_ Mrs. John Karslake? VIDA. [_Calm, but secretly disappointed._] Do you like her? SIR WILFRID. My word! VIDA. [_Fully expecting personal flattery._] Eh? SIR WILFRID. She's a box o' ginger! VIDA. You haven't seen many American women! SIR WILFRID. Oh, haven't I? VIDA. If you'll pay me a visit to-morrow--at twelve, you shall meet a most charming young woman, who has seen you once, and who admires you--ah! SIR WILFRID. I'm there--what! VIDA. Seven hundred and seventy-one Fifth Avenue. SIR WILFRID. Seven seventy-one Fifth Avenue--at twelve. VIDA. At twelve. SIR WILFRID. Thanks! [_Indicating_ CYNTHIA.] She's a thoroughbred--you can see that with one eye shut. Twelve. [_Shaking hands._] Awfully good of you to ask me. [_He joins_ JOHN.] I say, my boy, your former's an absolute certainty. [_To_ CYNTHIA.] I hear you're about to marry Mr. Phillimore, Mrs. Karslake? KARSLAKE _crosses to_ VIDA _and together they move to the sofa and sit down._ CYNTHIA. To-morrow, 3 P. M., Sir Wilfrid. SIR WILFRID. [_Much taken with_ CYNTHIA.] Afraid I've run into a sort of family party, eh? [_Indicating_ VIDA.] The Past and the Future--awfully chic way you Americans have of asking your divorced husbands and wives to drop in, you know--celebrate a christenin', or the new bride, or-- CYNTHIA. Do you like your tea strong? SIR WILFRID. Middlin'. CYNTHIA. Sugar? SIR WILFRID. One! CYNTHIA. Lemon? SIR WILFRID. Just torture a lemon over it. [_He makes a gesture as of twisting a lemon peel. She hands him his tea._] Thanks! So you do it to-morrow at three? CYNTHIA. At three, Sir Wilfrid. SIR WILFRID. Sorry! CYNTHIA. Why are you sorry? SIR WILFRID. Hate to see a pretty woman married. Might marry her myself. CYNTHIA. Oh, but I'm sure you don't admire American women. SIR WILFRID. Admire you, Mrs. Karslake-- CYNTHIA. Not enough to marry me, I hope. SIR WILFRID. Marry you in a minute! Say the word. Marry you now--here.