CYNTHIA. [_Her rage increasing._] To be where I am! Yes, it's just as horrible for you to turn up in my life as it would be for a dead person to insist on coming back to life and dinner and bridge! JOHN. Horrid idea! CYNTHIA. Yes, but it's _you_ who behave just as if you were not dead, just as if I'd not spent a fortune on your funeral. You do; you prepare to bob up at afternoon teas,--and dinners--and embarrass me to death with your extinct personality! JOHN. Well, of course we _were_ married, but it didn't quite kill me. CYNTHIA. [_Angry and plain spoken._] You killed yourself for me--I divorced you. I buried you out of my life. If any human soul was ever dead, you are! And there's nothing I so hate as a gibbering ghost. JOHN. Oh, I say! CYNTHIA. [_With hot anger._] Go gibber and squeak where gibbering and squeaking are the fashion! JOHN. [_Laughing and pretending to a coldness he does not feel._] And so, my dear child, I'm to abate myself as a nuisance! Well, as far as seeing you is concerned, for my part it's just like seeing a horse who's chucked you once. The bruises are O. K., and you see him with a sort of easy curiosity. Of course, you know, he'll jolly well chuck the next man!--Permit me! [JOHN _picks up her gloves, handkerchief and parasol, and gives her these as she drops them one by one in her agitation._] There's pleasure in the thought. CYNTHIA. Oh! JOHN. And now, may I ask you a very simple question? Mere curiosity on my part, but, why did you come here this morning? CYNTHIA. I have already explained that to you. JOHN. Not your real motive. Permit me! CYNTHIA. Oh! JOHN. But I believe I have guessed your real--permit me--your real motive! CYNTHIA. Oh! JOHN. [_With mock sympathy._] Cynthia, I am sorry for you. CYNTHIA. H'm? JOHN. Of course we had a pretty lively case of the fever--the mutual attraction fever, and we _were_ married a very short time. And I conclude that's what's the matter with _you_! You see, my dear, seven months of married life is too short a time to cure a bad case of the fancies. CYNTHIA. [_In angry surprise._] What? JOHN. [_Calm and triumphant._] That's my diagnosis. CYNTHIA. [_Slowly and gathering herself together._] I don't think I understand. JOHN. Oh, yes, you do; yes, you do. CYNTHIA. [_With blazing eyes._] What do you mean? JOHN. Would you mind not breaking my crop! Thank you! I mean [_With polite impertinence._] that ours was a case of premature divorce, and, ahem, you're in love with me still. _He pauses._ CYNTHIA _has one moment of fury, then she realizes at what a disadvantage this places her. She makes an immense effort, recovers her calm, thinks hard for a moment more, and then, has suddenly an inspiration._