JOHN. [_As he walks to his chair._] Hello, Fiddler! [_After a pause,_ JOHN _throws himself into a chair, keeping his hat on. He throws down his gloves, sighing._ FIDDLER. Came in to see you, sir, about Cynthia K. JOHN. [_Drearily._] Damn Cynthia K!-- FIDDLER. Couldn't have a word with you? JOHN. [_Grumpy._] No! FIDDLER. Yes, sir. JOHN. Fiddler. FIDDLER. Yes, sir. JOHN. Mrs. Karslake-- [FIDDLER _nods._] You used to say she was our mascot? FIDDLER. Yes, sir. JOHN. Well, she's just married herself to a--a sort of a man-- FIDDLER. Sorry to hear it, sir. JOHN. Well, Fiddler, between you and me, we're a pair of idiots. FIDDLER. Yes, sir! JOHN. And now it's too late! FIDDLER. Yes, sir--oh, beg your pardon, sir--your lawyer left a letter. [JOHN _takes letter; opens it and reads it, indifferently at first._ JOHN. [_As he opens the letter._] What's he got to say, more than what his wire said?--Eh-- [_Dumbfounded as he reads._] what?--Will explain.--Error in wording of telegram.--Call me up.-- [_Turning quickly to the telephone._] The man can't mean that she's still--Hello! Hello! [JOHN _listens._ FIDDLER. Would like to have a word with you, sir-- JOHN. Hello, Central! FIDDLER. That mare-- JOHN. [_Consulting the letter, and speaking into the 'phone._] 33246a 38! Did you get it? FIDDLER. That mare, sir, she's got a touch of malaria-- JOHN. [_At the 'phone._] Hello, Central--33246a--38!--Clayton Osgood--yes, yes, and say, Central--get a move on you! FIDDLER. If you think well of it, sir, I'll give her a tonic-- JOHN. [_Still at the 'phone._] Hello! Yes--yes--Jack Karslake. Is that you, Clayton? Yes--yes--well-- FIDDLER. Or if you like, sir, I'll give her-- JOHN. [_Turning on_ FIDDLER.] Shut up! [_To 'phone._] What was that? Not you--not you--a technical error? You mean to say that Mrs. Karslake is still--my--Hold the wire, Central--get off the wire! Get off the wire! Is that you, Clayton? Yes, yes--she and I are still--I got it! Good-bye! [_He hangs up the receiver; falls back into a chair. For a moment he is overcome. He takes up telephone book._ FIDDLER. All very well, Mr. Karslake, but I must know if I'm to give her-- JOHN. [_Turning over the leaves of the telephone book in hot haste._] What's Phillimore's number? FIDDLER. If you've no objections, I think I'll give her a-- JOHN. L--M--N--O--P--It's too late! She's married by this! Married!--and--my God--I--I am the cause. Phillimore-- FIDDLER. I'll give her-- JOHN. Give her wheatina!--give her grape-nuts--give her away! [FIDDLER, _biding his time, walks toward the window._] Only be quiet! Phillimore! [SIR WILFRID _comes in._ SIR WILFRID. Hello! We'd almost given you up! JOHN. [_In his agitation unable to find_ Phillimore's _number._] Just a moment! I'm trying to get Phillimore on the 'phone to--to tell Mrs. Karslake--