Janet.  I beg your pardon.

Honoria.  I beg yours.

Janet.  Granted.

Honoria.  There’s one question I should so like to ask you, Mr. Shawn.  In watercolours did Mr. Carve use Chinese white freely or did he stick to transparent colour, like the old English school?  I wonder if you understand me?

Carve. (Interested.) He used Chinese white like anything.

Honoria.  Oh!  I’m so glad.  You remember that charming water-colour of the Venetian gondolier in the Luxembourg.  We had a great argument after we got home last Easter as to whether the oar was put in with Chinese white—­or just ‘left out,’ you know!

Carve.  Chinese white, of course.  My notion is that it doesn’t matter a fig how you get effects so long as you do get them.

Honoria.  And that was his notion too? (Telephone bell rings, Janet answers it.)

Carve.  His?  Rather.  You bet it was.

Honoria.  I’m so glad.  I’m so glad.  I knew I was right about Chinese white.  Oh, Anselm, do let him be buried in the Abbey!  Do let me suggest to uncle——­

Looe.  My dear girl, ask your conscience.  Enthusiasm for art I can comprehend; I can even sympathize with it.  But if this grave national question is to be decided by considerations of Chinese white——­

     (Carve turns to Janet as if for succour.)

Janet. (Calmly.) The doctor is just coming up.

Carve.  The doctor?  What doctor?

Janet.  A Dr. Horning.  He says he’s Dr. Pascoe’s assistant and he attended Mr. Carve, and he wants to see you.

Carve.  But I don’t want to see him.

Janet.  You’ll have to see a doctor.

Carve.  Why?

Janet.  Because you’re ill.  So you may just as well see this one as another.  They’re all pretty much of a muchness.

     (Enter Peter Horning boisterously.  A page boy opens the door
     but does not announce him.)

Peter. (Perceiving Looe first.) Ah, Father!  You here?  How d’ye do?  What did you think of my special on last Sunday’s sermon? (Shakes hands with Looe and bows to miss Looe as to an acquaintance.)

Looe.  Very good.  Very good.

Peter. (Advancing to carve.) Mr. Shawn, I presume?

Carve. (Glancing helplessly at Janet.) But this isn’t the doctor?

Peter. (Volubly.) Admitted!  Admitted!  I’m only his brother—­a journalist.  I’m on the Courier and the Mercury and several other Worgan papers.  One of our chaps failed to get into this room this morning, so I came along to try what I could do.  You see what I’ve done.

Janet.  Well, I never came across such a set of people in my life.