PETER.  What?  Have I—­

DR. MACPHERSON.  You’re a terrible man for planning, Peter; but what have you done? [Casually.] Were you to die,—­say to-morrow,—­how would it be with—­[Making a gesture to include the household.]—­the rest of them?

PETER.  What do you mean?  If I were to die to-morrow ...

DR. MACPHERSON.  You won’t.  Don’t worry.  Good for a long time yet, but every one must come to it—­sooner or later.  I mean—­what would Katie’s position be in this house?  I know you’ve set your heart upon her marrying Frederik, and all that sort of nonsense, but will it work?  I’ve always thought ’twas a pity Frederik wasn’t James and James wasn’t Frederik.

PETER.  What!

DR. MACPHERSON.  Oh, it’s all very well if she wants Frederik, but supposing she does not.  Peter, if you mean to do something for her—­do it now.

PETER.  Now?  You mean that I—­You mean that I might ... die?

DR. MACPHERSON.  All can and do.

PETER. [Studying the DOCTOR’S face.] You think ...

DR. MACPHERSON.  The machinery is wearing out, Peter.  Thought I should tell you.  No cause for apprehension, but—­

PETER.  Then why tell me?

DR. MACPHERSON.  When I cured you of that cold—­wet flowerbeds—­two days ago, I made a discovery. [Seeing CATHERINE enter, he pauses.  She is followed by MARTA, carrying a tray containing coffee and a plate of waffles.] Coffee!  I told you not to touch coffee, Peter.  It’s rank poison.

CATHERINE.  Wouldn’t you like a cup, Doctor?

PETER.  Yes he’ll take a cup.  He won’t prescribe it, but he’ll drink it.

DR. MACPHERSON. [Horrified.] And hot waffles between meals!

PETER.  Yes, he’ll take hot waffles, too. [MARTA goes to get another plate and more waffles, and CATHERINE follows her.] Now, Andrew, you can’t tell me that I’m sick.  I won’t have it.  Every day we hear of some old boy one hundred years of age who was given up by the doctors at twenty.  No, sir!  I’m going to live to see children in my house,—­Katie’s babies creeping on my old floor; playing with my old watch-dog, Toby.  I’ve promised myself a long line of rosy Grimms.

DR. MACPHERSON.  My God, Peter!  That dog is fifteen years old now.  Do you expect nothing to change in your house?  Man, you’re a home worshipper.  However, I—­I see no reason why—­[Lying.]you shouldn’t reach a ripe old age. [Markedly, though feigning to treat the subject lightly.] Er—­ Peter, I should like to make a compact with you ... that whoever does go first—­and you’re quite likely to outlive me,—­is to come back and let the other fellow know ... and settle the question.  Splendid test between old neighbours—­real contribution to science.

PETER.  Make a compact to—­stuff and nonsense!

DR. MACPHERSON.  Don’t be too sure of that.