CYNTHIA. Those two _here_! It's just as if Adam and Eve should invite the snake to their golden wedding. [_Seeing_ THOMAS.] What is it, what's the matter? THOMAS. Mr. Phillimore's excuses, ma'am. In a very short time-- [THOMAS _goes out._ SIR WILFRID. I'm on to you! You hoped for more buttons! CYNTHIA. I'm dying of the heat; fan me. [SIR WILFRID _fans_ CYNTHIA. SIR WILFRID. Heat! No! You're dying because you're ignorin' nature. Certainly you are! You're marryin' Phillimore! [CYNTHIA _appears faint._] Can't ignore nature, Mrs. Karslake. Yes, you are; you're forcin' your feelin's. [CYNTHIA _glances at him._] And what you want to do is to let yourself go a bit--up anchor and sit tight! I'm no seaman, but that's the idea! [CYNTHIA _moves and shakes her head._] So just throw the reins on nature's neck, jump this fellow Phillimore and marry me! [_He leans toward_ CYNTHIA. CYNTHIA. [_Naturally, but with irritation._] You propose to me here, at a moment like this? When I'm on the last lap--just in sight of the goal--the gallows--the halter--the altar, I don't know what its name is! No, I won't have you! [_Looking toward_ KARSLAKE _and_ VIDA.] And I won't have you stand near me! I won't have you talking to me in a low tone! [_Her eyes glued on_ JOHN _and_ VIDA.] Stand over there--stand where you are. SIR WILFRID. I say-- CYNTHIA. I can hear you--I'm listening! SIR WILFRID. Well, don't look so hurried and worried. You've got buttons and buttons of time. And now my offer. You haven't yet said you would-- CYNTHIA. Marry you? I don't even know you! SIR WILFRID. [_Feeling sure of being accepted._] Oh,--tell you all about myself. I'm no duke in a pickle o' debts, d'ye see? I can marry where I like. Some o' my countrymen are rotters, ye know. They'd marry a monkey, if poppa-up-the-tree had a corner in cocoanuts! And they do marry some queer ones, y' know. [CYNTHIA _looks beyond him, exclaims and turns._ SIR WILFRID _turns._ CYNTHIA. Do they? SIR WILFRID. Oh, rather. That's what's giving your heiresses such a bad name lately. If a fellah's in debt he can't pick and choose, and then he swears that American gals are awfully fine lookers, but they're no good when it comes to continuin' the race! Fair dolls in the drawin'-room, but no good in the nursery. CYNTHIA. [_Thinking of_ JOHN _and_ VIDA _and nothing else._] I can see Vida in the nursery. SIR WILFRID. You understand when you want a brood mare, you don't choose a Kentucky mule. CYNTHIA. I think I see one. SIR WILFRID. Well, that's what they're saying over there. They say your gals run to talk [_He plainly remembers_ VIDA'S _volubility._] and I have seen gals here that would chat life into a wooden Indian! That's what you Americans call being clever.--All brains and no stuffin'! In fact, some of your American gals are the nicest boys I ever met. CYNTHIA. So that's what you think? SIR WILFRID. Not a bit what _I_ think--what my countrymen think!