PARAMORE. Oh, easily enough, by simply cutting the duct and seeing
what will happen to the guinea pig. (Sylvia rises, horrified.) I shall
require a knife specially made to get at it. The man who is waiting
for me downstairs has brought me a few handles to try before fitting
it and sending it to the laboratory. I am afraid it would not do to
bring such weapons up here.

SYLVIA. If you attempt such a thing, Dr. Paramore, I will complain to
the committee. The majority of the committee are anti-vivisectionists.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself. (She flounces out at the right
hand door.)

PARAMORE (with patient contempt). That's the sort of thing we
scientific men have to put up with nowadays, Mr. Cuthbertson.
Ignorance, superstition, sentimentality: they are all one. A guinea
pig's convenience is set above the health and lives of the entire
human race.

CUTHBERTSON (vehemently). It's not ignorance or superstition,
Paramore: it's sheer downright Ibsenism: that's what it is. I've been
wanting to sit comfortably at the fire the whole morning; but I've
never had a chance with that girl there. I couldn't go and plump
myself down on a seat beside her: goodness knows what she'd think I
wanted. That's one of the delights of having women in the club: when
they come in here they all want to sit at the fire and adore that
bust. I sometimes feel that I should like to take the poker and fetch
it a wipe across the nose--ugh!

PARAMORE. I must say I prefer the elder Miss Craven to her sister.

CUTHBERTSON (his eyes lighting up). Ah, Julia! I believe you. A
splendid fine creature--every inch a woman. No Ibsenism about her!

PARAMORE. I quite agree with you there, Mr. Cuthbertson. Er--by the
way, do you think is Miss Craven attached to Charteris at all?

CUTHBERTSON. What, that fellow! Not he. He hangs about after her; but
he's not man enough for her. A woman of that sort likes a strong,
manly, deep-throated, broad-chested man.

PARAMORE (anxiously). Hm, a sort of sporting character, you think?

CUTHBERTSON. Oh, no, no. A scientific man, perhaps, like yourself. But
you know what I mean--a MAN. (Strikes himself a sounding blow on the
chest.)

PARAMORE. Of course; but Charteris is a man.

CUTHBERTSON. Pah! you don't see what I mean. (The Page Boy returns
with his salver.)

PAGE BOY (calling monotonously as before). Mr. Cuthbertson, Mr.
Cuthbertson, Mr. Cuth--

CUTHBERTSON. Here, boy. (He takes a card from the salver.) Bring the
gentleman up here. (The boy goes out.) It's Craven. He's coming to
lunch with me and Charteris. You might join us if you've nothing
better to do, when you've finished with the instrument man. If Julia
turns up I'll ask her too.

PARAMORE (flushing with pleasure). I shall be very happy. Thank you.
(He is going out at the right hand door when Craven enters.) Good
morning, Colonel Craven.

CRAVEN (at the door). Good morning--glad to see you. I'm looking for
Cuthbertson.

PARAMORE (smiling). There he is. (He goes out.)

CUTHBERTSON (greeting Craven effusively). Delighted to see you. Now
will you come to the smoking room, or will you sit down here and have
a chat while we're waiting for Charteris. If you like company, the
smoking room is always full of women. Here we shall have it pretty
well all to ourselves until about three o'clock.

CRAVEN. I don't like to see women smoking. I'll make myself
comfortable here. (Sits in an easy chair on the right.)

CUTHBERTSON (taking a chair beside him, on his left). Neither do I.
There's not a room in this club where I can enjoy a pipe quietly
without a woman coming in and beginning to roll a cigarette. It's a
disgusting habit in a woman: it's not natural to her sex.

CRAVEN (sighing). Ah, Jo, times have changed since we both courted
Molly Ebden all those years ago. I took my defeat well, old chap,
didn't I?

CUTHBERTSON (with earnest approval). You did, Dan. The thought of it
has often helped me to behave well myself: it has, on my honour.

CRAVEN. Yes, you always believe in hearth and home, Jo--in a true
English wife and a happy wholesome fireside. How did Molly turn out?

CUTHBERTSON (trying to be fair to Molly). Well, not bad. She might
have been worse. You see I couldn't stand her relations: all the men
were roaring cads; and she couldn't get on with my mother. And then
she hated being in town; and of course I couldn't live in the country
on account of my work. But we hit it off as well as most people, until
we separated.

CRAVEN (taken aback). Separated! (He is irresistibly amused.) Oh, that
was the end of the hearth and home, Jo, was it?

CUTHBERTSON (warmly). It was not my fault, Dan. (Sentimentally.) Some
day the world will know how I loved that woman. But she was incapable
of valuing a true man's affection. Do you know, she often said she
wished she'd married you instead.

CRAVEN (sobered by the suggestion). Dear me, dear me! Well, perhaps it
was better as it was. You heard about my marriage, I suppose.

CUTHBERTSON. Oh yes: we all heard of it.

CRAVEN. Well, Jo, I may as well make a clean breast of it--everybody
knew it. I married for money.

CUTHBERTSON (encouragingly). And why not, Dan, why not? We can't get
on without it, you know.

CRAVEN (with sincere feeling). I got to be very fond of her, Jo. I had
a home until she died. Now everything's changed. Julia's always here.
Sylvia's of a different nature; but she's always here too.

CUTHBERTSON (sympathetically). I know. It's the same with Grace. She's
always here.

CRAVEN. And now they want me to be always here. They're at me every
day to join the club--to stop my grumbling, I suppose. That's what I
want to consult you about. Do you think I ought to join?

CUTHBERTSON. Well, if you have no conscientious objection--

CRAVEN (testily interrupting him). I object to the existence of the
place on principle; but what's the use of that? Here it is in spite of
my objection, and I may as well have the benefit of any good that may
be in it.

CUTHBERTSON (soothing him). Of course: that's the only reasonable view
of the matter. Well, the fact is, it's not so inconvenient as you
might think. When you're at home, you have the house more to yourself;
and when you want to have your family about you, you can dine with
them at the club.

CRAVEN (not much attracted by this). True.

CUTHBERTSON. Besides, if you don't want to dine with them, you
needn't.

CRAVEN (convinced). True, very true. But don't they carry on here,
rather?

CUTHBERTSON. Oh, no, they don't exactly carry on. Of course the usual
tone of the club is low, because the women smoke and earn their own
living and all that; but still there's nothing actually to complain
of. And it's convenient, certainly. (Charteris comes in, looking round
for them.)

CRAVEN (rising). Do you know, I've a great mind to join, just to see
what it's like. Would you mind putting me up?

CUTHBERTSON. Delighted, Dan, delighted. (He grasps Craven's hand.)

CHARTERIS (putting one hand on Craven's shoulder and the other on
Cuthbertson's). Bless you, my children! (Cuthbertson, a little wounded
in his dignity, moves away. The Colonel takes the jest in the utmost
good humor.)

CRAVEN (cordially). Hallo!

CHARTERIS (to Craven). Hope I haven't disturbed your chat by coming
too soon.

CRAVEN. Not at all. Welcome, dear boy. (Shakes his hand.)

CHARTERIS. That's right. I'm earlier than I intended. The fact is, I
have something rather pressing to say to Cuthbertson.

CRAVEN. Private!

CHARTERIS. Not particularly. (To Cuthbertson.) Only what we were
speaking of last night.

CUTHBERTSON. Well, Charteris, I think that is private, or ought to be.

CRAVEN (going up towards the table). I'll just take a look at the
Times--

CHARTERIS (stopping him). Oh, it's no secret: everybody in the club
guesses it. (To Cuthbertson.) Has Grace never mentioned to you that
she wants to marry me?

CUTHBERTSON (indignantly). She has mentioned that you want to marry
her.

CHARTERIS. Ah; but then it's not what I want, but what Grace wants,
that will weigh with you.

CRAVEN (a little shocked). Excuse me Charteris: this is private. I'll
leave you to yourselves. (Again moves towards the table.)

CHARTERIS. Wait a bit, Craven: you're concerned in this. Julia wants
to marry me too.

CRAVEN (in a tone of the strongest remonstrance). Now really! Now upon
my life and soul!

CHARTERIS. It's a fact, I assure you. Didn't it strike you as rather
odd, our being up there last night and Mrs. Tranfield not with us?

CRAVEN. Well, yes it did. But you explained it. And now really,
Charteris, I must say your explanation was in shocking bad taste
before Julia.

CHARTERIS. Never mind. It was a good, fat, healthy, bouncing lie.

CRAVEN and CUTHBERTSON. Lie!

CHARTERIS. Didn't you suspect that?

CRAVEN. Certainly not. Did you, Jo?

CUTHBERTSON. No, most emphatically.

CRAVEN. What's more, I don't believe you. I'm sorry to have to say
such a thing; but you forget that Julia was present and didn't
contradict you.

CHARTERIS. She didn't want to.

CRAVEN. Do you mean to say that my daughter deceived me?

CHARTERIS. Delicacy towards me compelled her to, Craven.

CRAVEN (taking a very serious tone). Now look here, Charteris: have
you any proper sense of the fact that you're standing between two
fathers?

CUTHBERTSON. Quite right, Dan, quite right. I repeat the question on
my own account.

CHARTERIS. Well, I'm a little dazed still by standing for so long
between two daughters; but I think I grasp the situation. (Cuthbertson
flings away with an exclamation of disgust.)

CRAVEN. Then I'm sorry for your manners, Charteris: that's all. (He
turns away sulkily; then suddenly fires up and turns on Charteris.)
How dare you tell me my daughter wants to marry you. Who are you,
pray, that she should have any such ambition?

CHARTERIS. Just so; she couldn't have made a worse choice. But she
won't listen to reason. I've talked to her like a father myself--I
assure you, my dear Craven, I've said everything that you could have
said; but it's no use: she won't give me up. And if she won't listen
to me, what likelihood is there of her listening to you?

CRAVEN (in angry bewilderment). Cuthbertson: did you ever hear
anything like this?

CUTHBERTSON. Never! Never!

CHARTERIS. Oh, bother? Come, don't behave like a couple of
conventional old fathers: this is a serious affair. Look at these
letters (producing a letter and a letter-card.) This (showing the
card) is from Grace--by the way, Cuthbertson, I wish you'd ask her not
to write on letter-cards: the blue colour makes it so easy for Julia
to pick the bits out of my waste paper basket and piece them together.
Now listen. "My dear Leonard: Nothing could make it worth my while to
be exposed to such scenes as last night's. You had much better go back
to Julia and forget me. Yours sincerely, Grace Tranfield."

CUTHBERTSON (infuriated). Damnation!

CHARTERIS (turning to Craven and preparing to read the letter). Now
for Julia. (The Colonel turns away to hide his face from Charteris,
anticipating a shock, and puts his hand on a chair to steady himself.)
"My dearest boy. Nothing will make me believe that this odious woman
can take my place in your heart. I send some of the letters you wrote
me when we first met; and I ask you to read them. They will recall
what you felt when you wrote them. You cannot have changed so much as
to be indifferent to me: whoever may have struck your fancy for the
moment, your heart is still mine"--and so on: you know the sort of
thing--"Ever and always your loving Julia." (The Colonel sinks on the
chair and covers his face with his hand.) You don't suppose she's
serious, do you: that's the sort of thing she writes me three times a
day. (To Cuthbertson) Grace is in earnest though, confound it. (He
holds out Grace's letter.) A blue card as usual! This time I shall not
trust the waste paper basket. (He goes to the fire, and throws the
letters into it.)

CUTHBERTSON (facing him with folded arms as he comes down again). May
I ask, Mr. Charteris, is this the New Humour?

CHARTERIS (still too preoccupied with his own difficulty to have any
sense of the effect he is producing on the others). Oh, stuff! Do you
suppose it's a joke to be situated as I am? You've got your head so
stuffed with the New Humour and the New Woman and the New This, That
and the Other, all mixed up with your own old Adam, that you've lost
your senses.

CUTHBERTSON (strenuously). Do you see that old man, grown grey in the
honoured service of his country, whose last days you have blighted?

CHARTERIS (surprised, looking at Craven and realizing his distress
with genuine concern). I'm very sorry. Come, Craven; don't take it to
heart. (Craven shakes his head.) I assure you it means nothing: it
happens to me constantly.

CUTHBERTSON. There is only one excuse for you. You are not fully
responsible for your actions. Like all advanced people, you have got
neurasthenia.

CHARTERIS (appalled). Great Heavens! what's that?

CUTHBERTSON. I decline to explain. You know as well as I do. I am
going downstairs now to order lunch. I shall order it for three; but
the third place is for Paramore, whom I have invited, not for you. (He
goes out through the left hand door.)

CHARTERIS (putting his hand on Craven's shoulder). Come, Craven;
advise me. You've been in this sort of fix yourself probably.

CRAVEN. Charteris: no woman writes such letters to a man unless he has
made advances to her.

CHARTERIS (mournfully). How little you know the world, Colonel! The
New Woman is not like that.

CRAVEN. I can only give you very old fashioned advice, my boy; and
that is that it's well to be off with the Old Woman before you're on
with the New. I'm sorry you told me. You might have waited for my
death: it's not far off now. (His head droops again. Julia and
Paramore enter on the right. Julia stops as she catches sight of
Charteris, her face clouding and her breast heaving. Paramore, seeing
the Colonel apparently ill, hurries down to him with the bedside
manner in full play.)

CHARTERIS (seeing Julia). Oh Lord! (He retreats under the lee of the
revolving bookstand.)

PARAMORE (sympathetically to the Colonel). Allow me. (Takes his wrist
and begins to count his pulse.)

CRAVEN (looking up). Eh? (Withdraws his hand and rises rather
crossly.) No, Paramore: it's not my liver now: it's private business.
(A chase now begins between Julia and Charteris, all the more exciting
to them because the huntress and her prey must alike conceal the real
object of their movements from the others. Charteris first makes for
the right hand door. Julia immediately moves back to it, barring his
path. He doubles back round the bookstand, setting it whirling as he
makes for the left door, Julia crossing in pursuit of him. He is about
to escape when he is cut off by the return of Cuthbertson. He turns
back and sees Julia close upon him. There being nothing else for it,
he bolts up into the recess to the left of the fireplace.)

CUTHBERTSON. Good morning, Miss Craven. (They shake hands.) Won't you
join us at lunch? Paramore's coming too.

JULIA. Thanks: I shall be very pleased. (She goes up with affected
purposelessness towards the recess. Charteris, almost trapped in it,
crosses to the right hand recess by way of the fender, knocking down
the fire irons with a crash as he does so.)

CRAVEN (who has crossed to the whirling bookcase and stopped it). What
the dickens are you doing there, Charteris?

CHARTERIS. Nothing. It's such a confounded room to get about in.

JULIA (maliciously). Yes, isn't it. (She is moving back to guard the
right hand door, when Cuthbertson appears at it.)

CUTHBERTSON. May I take you down? (He offers her his arm.)

JULIA. No, really: you know it's against the rules of the club to
coddle women in any way. Whoever is nearest to the door goes first.

CUTHBERTSON. Oh well, if you insist. Come, gentlemen: let us go to
lunch in the Ibsen fashion--the unsexed fashion. (He goes out on the
left followed by Paramore, laughing. Craven goes last. He turns at the
door to see whether Julia is coming, and stops when he sees she is
not.)

CRAVEN. Come, Julia.

JULIA (with patronising affection). Yes, Daddy, dear, presently.
(Charteris is meanwhile stealing to the right hand door.) Don't wait
for me: I'll come in a moment. (The Colonel hesitates.) It's all
right, Daddy.

CRAVEN (very gravely). Don't be long, my dear. (He goes out.)

CHARTERIS. I'm off. (Makes a dash for the right hand door.)

JULIA (darting at him and seizing his wrist). Aren't you coming?

CHARTERIS. No. Unhand me Julia. (He tries to get away: she holds him.)
If you don't let me go, I'll scream for help.

JULIA (reproachfully). Leonard! (He breaks away from her.) Oh, how can
you be so rough with me, dear. Did you get my letter?

CHARTERIS. Burnt it--(she turns away, struck to the heart, and buries
her face in her hands)--along with hers.

JULIA (quickly turning again). Hers! Has she written to you?

CHARTERIS. Yes, to break off with me on your account.

JULIA (her eyes gleaming). Ah!

CHARTERIS. You are pleased. Wretch! Now you have lost the last scrap
of my regard. (He turns to go, but is stopped by the return of Sylvia.
Julia turns away and stands pretending to read a paper which she picks
up from the table.)

SYLVIA (offhandedly). Hallo, Charteris: how are you getting on? (She
takes his arm familiarly and walks down the room with him.) Have you
seen Grace Tranfield this morning? (Julia drops the paper and comes a
step nearer to listen.) You generally know where she is to be found.

CHARTERIS. I shall never know any more, Sylvia. She's quarrelled with
me.

SYLVIA. Sylvia! How often am I to tell you that I am not Sylvia at the
club?

CHARTERIS. I forgot. I beg your pardon, Craven, old chap (slaps her on
the shoulder).

SYLVIA. That's better--a little overdone, but better.

JULIA. Don't be a fool, Silly.

SYLVIA. Remember, Julia, if you please, that here we are members of
the club, not sisters. I don't take liberties with you here on family
grounds: don't you take any with me. (She goes to the settee and
resumes her former place.)

CHARTERIS. Quite right, Craven. Down with the tyranny of the elder
sister!

JULIA. You ought to know better than to encourage a child to make
herself ridiculous, Leonard, even at my expense.

CHARTERIS (seating himself on the edge of the table). Your lunch will
be cold, Julia. (Julia is about to retort furiously when she is
checked by the reappearance of Cuthbertson at the left hand door.)

CUTHBERTSON. What has become of you, Miss Craven? Your father is
getting quite uneasy. We're all waiting for you.

JULIA. So I have just been reminded, thank you. (She goes out angrily
past him, Sylvia looking round to see.)

CUTHBERTSON (looking first after her, then at Charteris). More
neurasthenia. (He follows her.)

SYLVIA (jumping up on her knees on the settee and speaking over the
back of it). What's up, Charteris? Julia been making love to you?

CHARTERIS (speaking to her over his shoulder). No. Blowing me up for
making love to Grace.

SYLVIA. Serve you right. You are an awful devil for philandering.

CHARTERIS (calmly). Do you consider it good club form to talk that way
to a man who might nearly be your father?

SYLVIA (knowingly). Oh, I know you, my lad.

CHARTERIS. Then you know that I never pay any special attention to any
woman.

SYLVIA (thoughtfully). Do you know, Leonard, I really believe you. I
don't think you care a bit more for one woman than for another.

CHARTERIS. You mean I don't care a bit less for one woman than
another.

SYLVIA. That makes it worse. But what I mean is that you never bother
about their being only women: you talk to them just as you do to me or
any other fellow. That's the secret of your success. You can't think
how sick they get of being treated with the respect due to their sex.

CHARTERIS. Ah, if Julia only had your wisdom, Craven! (He gets off the
table with a sigh and perches himself reflectively on the stepladder.)

SYLVIA. She can't take things easy, can she, old man? But don't you be
afraid of breaking her heart: she gets over her little tragedies. We
found that out at home when our great sorrow came.

CHARTERIS. What was that?

SYLVIA. I mean when we learned that poor papa had Paramore's disease.
But it was too late to inoculate papa. All they could do was to
prolong his life for two years more by putting him on a strict diet.
Poor old boy! they cut off his liquor; and he's not allowed to eat
meat.

CHARTERIS. Your father appears to me to be uncommonly well.

SYLVIA. Yes, you would think he was a great deal better. But the
microbes are at work, slowly but surely. In another year it will be
all over. Poor old Dad! it's unfeeling to talk about him in this
attitude: I must sit down properly. (She comes down from the settee
and takes the chair near the bookstand.) I should like papa to live
for ever just to take the conceit out of Paramore. I believe he's in
love with Julia.

CHARTERIS (starting up excitedly). In love with Julia! A ray of hope
on the horizon! Do you really mean it?

SYLVIA. I should think I do. Why do you suppose he's hanging about the
club to-day in a beautiful new coat and tie instead of attending to
his patients? That lunch with Julia will finish him. He'll ask Daddy's
consent before they come back--I'll bet you three to one he will, in
anything you please.

CHARTERIS. Gloves?

SYLVIA. No: cigarettes.

CHARTERIS. Done! But what does she think about it? Does she give him
any encouragement?

SYLVIA. Oh, the usual thing. Enough to keep any other woman from
getting him.

CHARTERIS. Just so. I understand. Now listen to me: I am going to
speak as a philosopher. Julia is jealous of everybody--everybody. If
she saw you flirting with Paramore she'd begin to value him directly.
You might play up a little, Craven, for my sake--eh?

SYLVIA (rising). You're too awful, Leonard. For shame? However,
anything to oblige a fellow Ibsenite. I'll bear your affair in mind.
But I think it would be more effective if you got Grace to do it.

CHARTERIS. Think so? Hm! perhaps you're right.

PAGE BOY (outside as before). Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore, Dr.
Paramore--

SYLVIA. They ought to get that boy's voice properly cultivated: it's a
disgrace to the club. (She goes into the recess on Ibsen's left. The
page enters carrying the British Medical Journal.)

CHARTERIS (calling to the page). Dr. Paramore is in the dining room.

PAGE BOY. Thank you, sir. (He is about to go into the dining room when
Sylvia swoops on him.)

SYLVIA. Here: where are you taking that paper? It belongs to this
room.

PAGE BOY. It's Dr. Paramore's particular orders, miss. The British
Medical Journal has always to be brought to him dreckly it comes.

SYLVIA. What cheek? Charteris: oughtn't we to stop this on principle?

CHARTERIS. Certainly not. Principle's the poorest reason I know for
making yourself nasty.

SYLVIA. Bosh! Ibsen!

CHARTERIS (to the page). Off with you, my boy: Dr. Paramore's waiting
breathless with expectation.

PAGE BOY (seriously). Indeed, sir. (He hurries off.)

CHARTERIS. That boy will make his way in this country. He has no sense
of humour. (Grace comes in. Her dress, very convenient and
businesslike, is made to please herself and serve her own purposes
without the slightest regard to fashion, though by no means without a
careful concern for her personal elegance. She enters briskly, like an
habitually busy woman.)

SYLVIA (running to her). Here you are at last Tranfield, old girl.
I've been waiting for you this last hour. I'm starving.

GRACE. All right, dear. (To Charteris.) Did you get my letter?

CHARTERIS. Yes. I wish you wouldn't write on those confounded blue
letter cards.

SYLVIA (to Grace). Shall I go down first and secure a table?

CHARTERIS (taking the reply out of Grace's mouth). Do, old boy.

SYLVIA. Don't be too long. (She goes into the dining room.)

GRACE. Well?

CHARTERIS. I'm afraid to face you after last night. Can you imagine a
more horrible scene? Don't you hate the very sight of me after it?

GRACE. Oh, no.

CHARTERIS. Then you ought to. Ugh! it was hideous--an insult--an
outrage. A nice end to all my plans for making you happy--for making
you an exception to all the women who swear I have made them
miserable!

GRACE (sitting down placidly). I am not at all miserable. I'm sorry;
but I shan't break my heart.

CHARTERIS. No: yours is a thoroughbred heart: you don't scream and cry
every time it's pinched. That's why you are the only possible woman
for me.

GRACE (shaking her head). Not now. Never any more.

CHARTERIS. Never! What do you mean?

GRACE. What I say, Leonard.

CHARTERIS. Jilted again! The fickleness of women I love is only
equaled by the infernal constancy of the women who love me. Well,
well! I see how it is, Grace: you can't get over that horrible scene
last night. Imagine her saying I had kissed her within the last two
days!

GRACE (rising eagerly). Was that not true?

CHARTERIS. True! No: a thumping lie.

GRACE. Oh, I'm so glad. That was the only thing that really hurt me.

CHARTERIS. Just why she said it. How adorable of you to care! My
darling. (He seizes her hands and presses them to his breast.)

GRACE. Remember! it's all broken off.

CHARTERIS. Ah yes: you have my heart in your hands. Break it. Throw my
happiness out of the window.

GRACE. Oh, Leonard, does your happiness really depend on me?

CHARTERIS (tenderly). Absolutely. (She beams with delight. A sudden
revulsion comes to him at the sight: he recoils, dropping her hands
and crying) Ah no: why should I lie to you? (He folds his arms and
adds firmly) My happiness depends on nobody but myself. I can do
without you.

GRACE (nerving herself). So you shall. Thank you for the truth. Now
_I_ will tell you the truth.

CHARTERIS (unfolding his arms and again recoiling). No, please. Don't.
As a philosopher, it's my business to tell other people the truth; but
it's not their business to tell it to me. I don't like it: it hurts.

GRACE (quietly). It's only that I love you.

CHARTERIS. Ah! that's not a philosophic truth. You may tell me that as
often as you like. (He takes her in his arms.)

GRACE. Yes, Leonard; but I'm an advanced woman. (He checks himself
and looks at her in some consternation.) I'm what my father calls a
New Woman. (He lets her go and stares at her.) I quite agree with all
your ideas.

CHARTERIS (scandalized). That's a nice thing for a respectable woman
to say! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

GRACE. I am quite in earnest about them too, though you are not; and I
will never marry a man I love too much. It would give him a terrible
advantage over me: I should be utterly in his power. That's what the
New Woman is like. Isn't she right, Mr. Philosopher?

CHARTERIS. The struggle between the Philosopher and the Man is
fearful, Grace. But the Philosopher says you are right.

GRACE. I know I am right. And so we must part.

CHARTERIS. Not at all. You must marry some one else; and then I'll
come and philander with you. (Sylvia comes back.)

SYLVIA (holding the door open). Oh, I say: come along. I'm starving.

CHARTERIS. So am I. I'll lunch with you if I may.

SYLVIA. I thought you would. I've ordered soup for three. (Grace
passes out. Sylvia continues, to Charteris) You can watch Paramore
from our table: he's pretending to read the British Medical Journal;
but he must be making up his mind for the plunge: he looks green with
nervousness.

CHARTERIS. Good luck to him. (He goes out, followed by Sylvia.)


END OF ACT II.





ACT III


Still the library. Ten minutes later. Julia, angry and
miserable, comes in from the dining room, followed by
Craven. She crosses the room tormentedly, and throws
herself into a chair.

CRAVEN (impatiently). What is the matter? Has everyone gone mad
to-day? What do you mean by suddenly getting up from the table and
tearing away like that? What does Paramore mean by reading his paper
and not answering when he's spoken to? (Julia writhes impatiently.)
Come, come (tenderly): won't my pet tell her own father what--
(irritably) what the devil is wrong with everybody? Do pull yourself
straight, Julia, before Cuthbertson comes. He's only paying the bill:
he'll be here in a moment.

JULIA. I couldn't bear it any longer. Oh, to see them sitting there at
lunch together, laughing, chatting, making game of me! I should have
screamed out in another moment--I should have taken a knife and killed
her--I should have--(Cuthbertson appears with the luncheon bill in his
hand. He stuffs it into his waistcoat pocket as he comes to them. He
begins speaking the moment he enters.)

CUTHBERTSON. I'm afraid you've had a very poor lunch, Dan. It's
disheartening to see you picking at a few beans and drinking soda
water. I wonder how you live!

JULIA. That's all he ever takes, Mr. Cuthbertson, I assure you. He
hates to be bothered about it.

CRAVEN. Where's Paramore?


CUTHBERTSON. Reading his paper, I asked him wasn't he coming; but he
didn't hear me. It's amazing how anything scientific absorbs him.
Clever man! Monstrously clever man!

CRAVEN (pettishly). Oh yes, that's all very well, Jo; but it's not
good manners at table: he should shut up the shop sometimes. Heaven
knows I am only too anxious to forget his science, since it has
pronounced my doom. (He sits down with a melancholy air.)

CUTHBERTSON (compassionately). You mustn't think about that, Craven:
perhaps he was mistaken. (He sighs deeply and sits down.) But he is
certainly a very clever fellow. He thinks twice before he commits
himself. (They sit in silence, full of the gloomiest thoughts.
Suddenly Paramore enters, pale and in the utmost disorder, with the
British Medical Journal in his clenched hand. They rise in alarm. He
tries to speak, but chokes, clutches at his throat, and staggers.
Cuthbertson quickly takes his chair and places it behind Paramore, who
sinks into it as they crowd about him, Craven at his right shoulder,
Cuthbertson on his left, and Julia behind Craven.)

CRAVEN. What's the matter, Paramore?

JULIA. Are you ill?

CUTHBERTSON. No bad news, I hope?

PARAMORE (despairingly). The worst of news! Terrible news! Fatal news!
My disease--

CRAVEN (quickly). Do you mean my disease?

PARAMORE (fiercely). I mean my disease--Paramore's disease--the
disease I discovered--the work of my life. Look here (pointing to the
B. M. J. with a ghastly expression of horror.) If this is true, it was
all a mistake: there is no such disease. (Cuthbertson and Julia look
at one another, hardly daring to believe the good news.)

CRAVEN (in strong remonstrance). And you call this bad news! Now
really, Paramore--

PARAMORE (cutting him short hoarsely). It's natural for you to think
only of yourself. I don't blame you: all invalids are selfish. Only a
scientific man can feel what I feel now. (Writhing under a sense of
intolerable injustice.) It's the fault of the wickedly sentimental
laws of this country. I was not able to make experiments enough--only
three dogs and a monkey. Think of that, with all Europe full of my
professional rivals--men burning to prove me wrong! There is freedom
in France--enlightened republican France. One Frenchman experiments on
two hundred monkeys to disprove my theory. Another sacrifices 36
pounds--three hundred dogs at three francs apiece--to upset the monkey
experiments. A third proves them to be both wrong by a single
experiment in which he gets the temperature of a camel's liver 60
degrees below zero. And now comes this cursed Italian who has ruined
me. He has a government grant to buy animals with, besides the run of
the largest hospital in Italy. (With desperate resolution) But I won't
be beaten by any Italian. I'll go to Italy myself. I'll re-discover my
disease: I know it exists; I feel it; and I'll prove it if I have to
experiment on every mortal animal that's got a liver at all. (He folds
his arms and breathes hard at them.)

CRAVEN (his sense of injury growing upon him). Am I to understand,
Paramore, that you took it on yourself to pass sentence of death--yes,
of Death--on me, on the strength of three dogs and an infernal monkey?

PARAMORE (utterly contemptuous of Craven's narrow personal view of the
matter). Yes. That was all I could get a license for.

CRAVEN. Now upon my soul, Paramore, I'm vexed at this. I don't wish to
be unfriendly; but I'm extremely vexed, really. Why, confound it, do
you realize what you've done? You've cut off my meat and drink for a
year--made me an object of public scorn--a miserable vegetarian and a
teetotaller.

PARAMORE (rising). Well, you can make up for lost time now. (Bitterly,
shewing Craven the Journal) There! you can read for yourself. The
camel was fed on beef dissolved in alcohol; and he gained weight under
it. Eat and drink as much as you please. (Still unable to stand
without support, he makes his way past Cuthbertson to the revolving
bookcase and stands there with his back to them, leaning on it with
his head on his hand.)

CRAVEN (grumbling). Oh yes, it's very easy for you to talk, Paramore.
But what am I to say to the Humanitarian societies and the Vegetarian
societies that have made me a Vice President?

CUTHBERTSON (chuckling). Aha! You made a virtue of it, did you, Dan?

CRAVEN (warmly). I made a virtue of necessity, Jo. No one can blame
me.

JULIA (soothing him). Well, never mind, Daddy. Come back to the dining
room and have a good beefsteak.

CRAVEN (shuddering). Ugh! (Plaintively) No: I've lost my old manly
taste for it. My very nature's been corrupted by living on pap. (To
Paramore.) That's what comes of all this vivisection. You go
experimenting on horses; and of course the result is that you try to
get me into condition by feeding me on beans.

PARAMORE (curtly, without changing his position). Well, if they've
done you good, so much the better for you.

CRAVEN (querulously). That's all very well; but it's very vexing. You
don't half see how serious it is to make a man believe that he has
only another year to live: you really don't, Paramore: I can't help
saying it. I've made my will, which was altogether unnecessary; and
I've been reconciled to a lot of people I'd quarrelled with--people I
can't stand under ordinary circumstances. Then I've let the girls get
round me at home to an extent I should never have done if I'd had my
life before me. I've done a lot of serious thinking and reading and
extra church going. And now it turns out simple waste of time. On my
soul, it's too disgusting: I'd far rather die like a man when I said I
would.

PARAMORE (as before). Perhaps you may. Your heart's shaky, if that's
any satisfaction to you.

CRAVEN (offended). You must excuse me, Paramore, if I say that I no
longer feel any confidence in your opinion as a medical man.
(Paramore's eye flashes: he straightens himself and listens.) I paid
you a pretty stiff fee for that consultation when you condemned me;
and I can't say I think you gave me value for it.

PARAMORE (turning and facing Craven with dignity). That's
unanswerable, Colonel Craven. I shall return the fee.

CRAVEN. Oh, it's not the money; but I think you ought to realize your
position. (Paramore turns stiffly away. Craven follows him
impulsively, exclaiming remorsefully) Well, perhaps it was a nasty
thing of me to allude to it. (He offers Paramore his hand.)

PARAMORE (conscientiously taking it). Not at all. You are quite in the
right, Colonel Craven. My diagnosis was wrong; and I must take the
consequences.

CRAVEN (holding his hand). No, don't say that. It was natural enough:
my liver is enough to set any man's diagnosis wrong. (A long
handshake, very trying to Paramore's nerves. Paramore then retires to
the recess on Ibsen's left, and throws himself on the divan with a
half suppressed sob, bending over the British Medical Journal with his
head on his hands and his elbows on his knees.)

CUTHBERTSON (who has been rejoicing with Julia at the other side of
the room). Well, let's say no more about it. I congratulate you,
Craven, and hope you may long be spared. (Craven offers his hand.) No,
Dan: your daughter first. (He takes Julia's hand gently and hands her
across to Craven, into whose arms she flies with a gush of feeling.)

JULIA. Dear old Daddy!

CRAVEN. Ah, is Julia glad that the old Dad is let off for a few years
more?

JULIA (almost crying). Oh, so glad: so glad! (Cuthbertson sobs
audibly. The Colonel is affected. Sylvia, entering from the dining
room, stops abruptly at the door on seeing the three. Paramore, in the
recess, escapes her notice.)

SYLVIA. Hallo!

CRAVEN. Tell her the news, Julia: it would sound ridiculous from me.
(He goes to the weeping Cuthbertson, and pats him consolingly on the
shoulder.)

JULIA. Silly: only think! Dad's not ill at all. It was only a mistake
of Dr. Paramore's. Oh, dear! (She catches Craven's left hand and
stoops to kiss it, his right hand being still on Cuthbertson's
shoulder.)

SYLVIA (contemptuously). I knew it. Of course it was nothing but
eating too much. I always said Paramore was an ass. (Sensation.
Cuthbertson, Craven and Julia turn in consternation.)

PARAMORE (without malice). Never mind, Miss Craven. That is what is
being said all over Europe now. Never mind.

SYLVIA (a little abashed). I'm so sorry, Dr. Paramore. You must excuse
a daughter's feelings.

CRAVEN (huffed). It evidently doesn't make much difference to you,
Sylvia.

SYLVIA. I'm not going to be sentimental over it, Dad, you may bet.
(Coming to Craven.) Besides, I knew it was nonsense all along.
(Petting him.) Poor dear old Dad! why should your days be numbered any
more than any one else's? (He pats her cheek, mollified. Julia
impatiently turns away from them.) Come to the smoking room, and let's
see what you can do after teetotalling for a year.

CRAVEN (playfully). Vulgar little girl! (He pinches her ear.) Shall we
come, Jo! You'll be the better for a pick-me-up after all this
emotion.

CUTHBERTSON. I'm not ashamed of it, Dan. It has done me good. (He goes
up to the table and shakes his fist at the bust over the mantelpiece.)
It would do you good too if you had eyes and ears to take it in.

CRAVEN (astonished). Who?

SYLVIA. Why, good old Henrik, of course.

CRAVEN (puzzled). Henrik?

CUTHBERTSON (impatiently). Ibsen, man: Ibsen. (He goes out by the
staircase door followed by Sylvia, who kisses her hand to the bust as
she passes. Craven stares blankly after her, and then up at the bust.
Giving the problem up as insoluble, he shakes his head and follows
them. Near the door he checks himself and comes back.)

CRAVEN (softly). By the way, Paramore?--

PARAMORE (rousing himself with an effort). Yes?

CRAVEN. You weren't in earnest that time about my heart, were you?

PARAMORE. Oh, nothing, nothing. There's a slight murmur--mitral valves
a little worn, perhaps; but they'll last your time if you're careful.
Don't smoke too much.

CRAVEN. What! More privations! Now really, Paramore, really--

PARAMORE (rising distractedly). Excuse me: I can't pursue the subject.
I--I--

JULIA. Don't worry him now, Daddy.

CRAVEN. Well, well: I won't. (He comes to Paramore, who is pacing
restlessly up and down the middle of the room.) Come, Paramore, I'm
not selfish, believe me: I can feel for your disappointment. But you
must face it like a man. And after all, now really, doesn't this shew
that there's a lot of rot about modern science? Between ourselves, you
know, it's horribly cruel: you must admit that it's a deuced nasty
thing to go ripping up and crucifying camels and monkeys. It must
blunt all the finer feelings sooner or later.

PARAMORE (turning on him). How many camels and horses and men were
ripped up in that Soudan campaign where you won your Victoria Cross,
Colonel Craven?

CRAVEN (firing up). That was fair fighting--a very different thing,
Paramore.

PARAMORE. Yes, Martinis and machine guns against naked spearmen.

CRAVEN (hotly). I took my chance with the rest, Dr. Paramore. I risked
my own life: don't forget that.

PARAMORE (with equal spirit). And I have risked mine, as all doctors
do, oftener than any soldier.

CRAVEN. That's true. I didn't think of that. I beg your pardon,
Paramore: I'll never say another word against your profession. But I
hope you'll let me stick to the good old-fashioned shaking up
treatment for my liver--a clinking run across country with the hounds.

PARAMORE (with bitter irony). Isn't that rather cruel--a pack of dogs
ripping up a fox?

JULIA (coming coaxingly between them). Oh, please don't begin arguing
again. Do go to the smoking room, Daddy: Mr. Cuthbertson will wonder
what has become of you.

CRAVEN. Very well, very well: I'll go. But you're really not
reasonable to-day, Paramore, to talk that way of fair sport--

JULIA. Sh--sh (coaxing him toward the door).

CRAVEN. Well, well, I'm off. (He goes good-humoredly, pushed out by
Julia.)

JULIA (turning at the door with her utmost witchery of manner). Don't
look so disappointed, Dr. Paramore. Cheer up. You've been most kind to
us; and you've done papa a lot of good.

PARAMORE (delighted, rushing over to her). How beautiful it is of you
to say that to me, Miss Craven!

JULIA. I hate to see any one unhappy. I can't bear unhappiness. (She
runs out, casting a Parthian glance at him as she flies. Paramore
stands enraptured, gazing after her through the glass door. Whilst he
is thus absorbed Charteris comes in from the dining room and touches
him on the arm.)

PARAMORE (starting). Eh! What's the matter?

CHARTERIS (significantly). Charming woman, isn't she, Paramore?
(Looking admiringly at him.) How have you managed to fascinate her?

PARAMORE. I! Do you really mean-- (He looks at him; then recovers
himself and adds coldly.) Excuse me: this is a subject I do not care
to jest about. (He walks away from Charteris down the side of the
room, and sits down in an easy chair reading his Journal to intimate
that he does not wish to pursue the conversation.)

CHARTERIS (ignoring the hint and coolly taking a chair beside him).
Why don't you get married, Paramore? You know it's a scandalous thing
for a man in your profession to be single.

PARAMORE (shortly, still pretending to read). That's my own business,
not yours.

CHARTERIS. Not at all: it's pre-eminently a social question. You're
going to get married, aren't you?

PARAMORE. Not that I am aware of.

CHARTERIS (alarmed). No! Don't say that. Why?

PARAMORE (rising angrily and rapping one of the SILENCE placards).
Allow me to call your attention to that. (He crosses to the easy chair
near the revolving bookstand, and flings himself into it with
determined hostility.)

CHARTERIS (following him, too deeply concerned to mind the rebuff).
Paramore: you alarm me more than I can say. You've been and muffed
this business somehow. I know perfectly well what you've been up to;
and I fully expected to find you a joyful accepted suitor.

PARAMORE (angrily). Yes, you have been watching me because you admire
Miss Craven yourself. Well, you may go in and win now. You will be
pleased to hear that I am a ruined man.

CHARTERIS. You! Ruined! How? The turf?

PARAMORE (contemptuously). The turf!! Certainly not.

CHARTERIS. Paramore: if the loan of all I possess will help you over
this difficulty, you're welcome to it.

PARAMORE (rising in surprise). Charteris! I-- (suspiciously.) Are you
joking?

CHARTERIS. Why on earth do you always suspect me of joking? I never
was more serious in my life.

PARAMORE (shamed by Charteris's generosity). Then I beg your pardon. I
thought the news would please you.

CHARTERIS (deprecating this injustice to his good feeling). My dear
fellow--!

PARAMORE. I see I was wrong. I am really very sorry. (They shake
hands.) And now you may as well learn the truth. I had rather you
heard it from me than from the gossip of the club. My liver discovery
has been--er--er--(he cannot bring himself to say it).

CHARTERIS (helping him out). Confirmed? (Sadly.) I see: the poor
Colonel's doomed.

PARAMORE. No: on the contrary, it has been--er--called in question.
The Colonel now believes himself to be in perfectly good health; and
my friendly relations with the Cravens are entirely spoiled.

CHARTERIS. Who told him about it?

PARAMORE. I did, of course, the moment I read the news in this. (He
shews the Journal and puts it down on the bookstand.)

CHARTERIS. Why, man, you've been a messenger of glad tidings! Didn't
you congratulate him?

PARAMORE (scandalised). Congratulate him! Congratulate a man on the
worst blow pathological science has received for the last three
hundred years!

CHARTERIS. No, no, no. Congratulate him on having his life saved.
Congratulate Julia on having her father spared. Swear that your
discovery and your reputation are as nothing to you compared with the
pleasure of restoring happiness to the household in which the best
hopes of your life are centred. Confound it, man, you'll never get
married if you can't turn things to account with a woman in these
little ways.

PARAMORE (gravely). Excuse me; but my self-respect is dearer to me
even than Miss Craven. I cannot trifle with scientific questions for
the sake of a personal advantage. (He turns away coldly and goes
toward the table.)

CHARTERIS. Well, this beats me! The nonconformist conscience is bad
enough; but the scientific conscience is the very devil. (He follows
Paramore and puts his arm familiarly round his shoulder, bringing him
back again whilst he speaks.) Now look here, Paramore: I've got no
conscience in that sense at all: I loathe it as I loathe all the
snares of idealism; but I have some common humanity and common sense.
(He replaces him in the easy chair and sits down opposite him.) Come:
what is a really scientific theory?--a true theory, isn't it?

PARAMORE. No doubt.

CHARTERIS. For instance, you have a theory about Craven's liver, eh?

PARAMORE. I still believe that to be a true theory, though it has been
upset for the moment.

CHARTERIS. And you have a theory that it would be pleasant to be
married to Julia?

PARAMORE. I suppose so--in a sense.

CHARTERIS. That theory also will be upset, probably, before you're a
year older.

PARAMORE. Always cynical, Charteris.

CHARTERIS. Never mind that. Now it's a perfectly damnable thing for
you to hope that your liver theory is true, because it amounts to
hoping that Craven will die an agonizing death. (This strikes Paramore
as paradoxical; but it startles him.) But it's amiable and human to
hope that your theory about Julia is right, because it amounts to
hoping that she may live happily ever after.

PARAMORE. I do hope that with all my soul--(correcting himself) I mean
with all my function of hoping.

CHARTERIS. Then, since both theories are equally scientific, why not
devote yourself, as a humane man, to proving the amiable theory rather
than the damnable one?

PARAMORE. But how?

CHARTERIS. I'll tell you. You think I'm fond of Julia myself. So I am;
but then I'm fond of everybody; so I don't count. Besides, if you try
the scientific experiment of asking her whether she loves me, she'll
tell you that she hates and despises me. So I'm out of the running.
Nevertheless, like you, I hope that she may be happy with all my--what
did you call your soul?

PARAMORE (impatiently). Oh, go on, go on: finish what you were going
to say.

CHARTERIS (suddenly affecting complete indifference, and rising
carelessly). I don't know that I have anything more to say. If I were
you I should invite the Cravens to tea in honor of the Colonel's
escape from a horrible doom. By the way, if you've done with that
British Medical Journal, I should like to see how they've smashed your
theory up.

PARAMORE (wincing as he also rises). Oh, certainly, if you wish it. I
have no objection. (He takes the Journal from the bookstand.) I admit
that the Italian experiments apparently upset my theory. But please
remember that it is doubtful--extremely doubtful--whether anything can
be proved by experiments on animals. (He hands Charteris the Journal.)

CHARTERIS (taking it). It doesn't matter: I don't intend to make any.
(He retires to the recess on Ibsen's right, picking up the step ladder
as he passes and placing it so that he is able to use it for a leg
rest as he settles himself to read on the divan with his back to the
corner of the mantelpiece. Paramore goes to the left hand door, and is
about to leave the library when he meets Grace entering.)

GRACE. How do you do, Dr. Paramore. So glad to see you. (They shake
hands.)

PARAMORE. Thanks. Quite well, I hope?

GRACE. Quite, thank you. You're looking overworked. We must take more
care of you, Doctor.

PARAMORE. You are very kind.

GRACE. It is you who are too kind--to your patients. You sacrifice
yourself. Have a little rest. Come and talk to me--tell me all about
the latest scientific discoveries, and what I ought to read to keep
myself up to date. But perhaps you're busy.

PARAMORE. No, not at all. Only too delighted. (They go into the recess
on Ibsen's left, and sit there chatting in whispers, very
confidentially.)

CHARTERIS. How they all love a doctor! They can say what they like to
him! (Julia returns. He takes his feet down from the ladder and sits
up.) Whew! (Julia wanders down his side of the room, apparently
looking for someone. Charteris steals after her.)

CHARTERIS (in a low voice). Looking for me, Julia?

JULIA (starting violently). Oh! How you startled me!

CHARTERIS. Sh! I want to shew you something. Look! (He points to the
pair in the recess.)

JULIA (jealously). That woman!

CHARTERIS. My young woman, carrying off your young man.

JULIA. What do you mean? Do you dare insinuate--

CHARTERIS. Sh--sh--sh! Don't disturb them. (Paramore rises; takes down
a book; and sits on a footstool at Grace's feet.)

JULIA. Why are they whispering like that?

CHARTERIS. Because they don't want anyone to hear what they are saying
to one another. (Paramore shews Grace a picture in the book. They both
laugh heartily over it.)

JULIA. What is he shewing her?

CHARTERIS. Probably a diagram of the liver. (Julia, with an
exclamation of disgust makes for the recess. Charteris catches her
sleeve.) Stop: be careful, Julia. (She frees herself by giving him a
push which upsets him into the easy chair; then crosses to the recess
and stands looking down at Grace and Paramore from the corner next the
fireplace.)