Walpole.  My dear Ridgeon, best wishes! heartiest congratulations!  You deserve it.

Ridgeon.  Thank you.

Walpole.  As a man, mind you.  You deserve it as a man.  The opsonin is simple rot, as any capable surgeon can tell you; but we’re all delighted to see your personal qualities officially recognized.  Sir Patrick:  how are you?  I sent you a paper lately about a little thing I invented:  a new saw.  For shoulder blades.

Sir Patrick [meditatively] Yes:  I got it.  It’s a good saw:  a useful, handy instrument.

Walpole [confidently] I knew youd see its points.

Sir Patrick.  Yes:  I remember that saw sixty-five years ago.

Walpole.  What!

Sir Patrick.  It was called a cabinetmaker’s jimmy then.

Walpole.  Get out!  Nonsense!  Cabinetmaker be—­

Ridgeon.  Never mind him, Walpole.  He’s jealous.

Walpole.  By the way, I hope I’m not disturbing you two in anything private.

Ridgeon.  No no.  Sit down.  I was only consulting him.  I’m rather out of sorts.  Overwork, I suppose.

Walpole [swiftly] I know whats the matter with you.  I can see it in your complexion.  I can feel it in the grip of your hand.

Ridgeon.  What is it?

Walpole.  Blood-poisoning.

Ridgeon.  Blood-poisoning!  Impossible.

Walpole.  I tell you, blood-poisoning.  Ninety-five per cent of the human race suffer from chronic blood-poisoning, and die of it.  It’s as simple as A.B.C.  Your nuciform sac is full of decaying matter—­undigested food and waste products—­rank ptomaines.  Now you take my advice, Ridgeon.  Let me cut it out for you.  You’ll be another man afterwards.

Sir Patrick.  Dont you like him as he is?

Walpole.  No I dont.  I dont like any man who hasnt a healthy circulation.  I tell you this:  in an intelligently governed country people wouldnt be allowed to go about with nuciform sacs, making themselves centres of infection.  The operation ought to be compulsory:  it’s ten times more important than vaccination.

Sir Patrick.  Have you had your own sac removed, may I ask?

Walpole [triumphantly] I havnt got one.  Look at me!  Ive no symptoms.  I’m as sound as a bell.  About five per cent of the population havnt got any; and I’m one of the five per cent.  I’ll give you an instance.  You know Mrs Jack Foljambe:  the smart Mrs Foljambe?  I operated at Easter on her sister-in-law, Lady Gorran, and found she had the biggest sac I ever saw:  it held about two ounces.  Well, Mrs. Foljambe had the right spirit—­the genuine hygienic instinct.  She couldnt stand her sister-in-law being a clean, sound woman, and she simply a whited sepulchre.  So she insisted on my operating on