Redpenny.  I tell you he cant see anybody.  Do go away, Emmy.  How can I work with you dusting all over me like this?

Emmy.  I’m not hindering you working—­if you call writing letters working.  There goes the bell. [She looks out of the window].  A doctor’s carriage.  Thats more congratulations. [She is going out when Sir Colenso Ridgeon enters].  Have you finished your two eggs, sonny?

Ridgeon.  Yes.

Emmy.  Have you put on your clean vest?

Ridgeon.  Yes.

Emmy.  Thats my ducky diamond!  Now keep yourself tidy and dont go messing about and dirtying your hands:  the people are coming to congratulate you. [She goes out].

Sir Colenso Ridgeon is a man of fifty who has never shaken off his youth.  He has the off-handed manner and the little audacities of address which a shy and sensitive man acquires in breaking himself in to intercourse with all sorts and conditions of men.  His face is a good deal lined; his movements are slower than, for instance, Redpenny’s; and his flaxen hair has lost its lustre; but in figure and manner he is more the young man than the titled physician.  Even the lines in his face are those of overwork and restless scepticism, perhaps partly of curiosity and appetite, rather than of age.  Just at present the announcement of his knighthood in the morning papers makes him specially self-conscious, and consequently specially off-hand with Redpenny.

Ridgeon.  Have you seen the papers?  Youll have to alter the name in the letters if you havnt.

Redpenny.  Emmy has just told me.  I’m awfully glad.  I—­

Ridgeon.  Enough, young man, enough.  You will soon get accustomed to it.

Redpenny.  They ought to have done it years ago.

Ridgeon.  They would have; only they couldnt stand Emmy opening the door, I daresay.

Emmy [at the door, announcing] Dr Shoemaker. [She withdraws].

A middle-aged gentleman, well dressed, comes in with a friendly but propitiatory air, not quite sure of his reception.  His combination of soft manners and responsive kindliness, with a certain unseizable reserve and a familiar yet foreign chiselling of feature, reveal the Jew:  in this instance the handsome gentlemanly Jew, gone a little pigeon-breasted and stale after thirty, as handsome young Jews often do, but still decidedly good-looking.

The gentleman.  Do you remember me?  Schutzmacher.  University College school and Belsize Avenue.  Loony Schutzmacher, you know.

Ridgeon.  What!  Loony! [He shakes hands cordially].  Why, man, I thought you were dead long ago.  Sit down. [Schutzmacher sits on the couch:  Ridgeon on the chair between it and the window].  Where have you been these thirty years?

Schutzmacher.  In general practice, until a few months ago.  I’ve retired.