B. B. [brightening wonderfully, as if Dubedat were already saved] Cornwall!  The very place for him!  Wonderful for the lungs.  Stupid of me not to think of it before.  You are his best physician after all, dear lady.  An inspiration!  Cornwall:  of course, yes, yes, yes.

Mrs Dubedat [comforted and touched] You are so kind, Sir Ralph.  But dont give me much or I shall cry; and Louis cant bear that.

B. B. [gently putting his protecting arm round her shoulders] Then let us come back to him and help to carry him in.  Cornwall! of course, of course.  The very thing! [They go together into the bedroom].

Walpole returns with The Newspaper Man, a cheerful, affable young man who is disabled for ordinary business pursuits by a congenital erroneousness which renders him incapable of describing accurately anything he sees, or understanding or reporting accurately anything he hears.  As the only employment in which these defects do not matter is journalism (for a newspaper, not having to act on its description and reports, but only to sell them to idly curious people, has nothing but honor to lose by inaccuracy and unveracity), he has perforce become a journalist, and has to keep up an air of high spirits through a daily struggle with his own illiteracy and the precariousness of his employment.  He has a note-book, and ocasionally attempts to make a note; but as he cannot write shorthand, and does not write with ease in any hand, he generally gives it up as a bad job before he succeeds in finishing a sentence.

The newspaper man [looking round and making indecisive attempts at notes] This is the studio, I suppose.

Walpole.  Yes.

The newspaper man [wittily] Where he has his models, eh?

Walpole [grimly irresponsive] No doubt.

The newspaper man.  Cubicle, you said it was?

Walpole.  Yes, tubercle.

The newspaper man.  Which way do you spell it:  is it c-u-b-i-c-a-l or c-l-e?

Walpole.  Tubercle, man, not cubical. [Spelling it for him] T-u-b-e-r-c-l-e.

The newspaper man.  Oh! tubercle.  Some disease, I suppose.  I thought he had consumption.  Are you one of the family or the doctor?

Walpole.  I’m neither one nor the other.  I am Mister Cutler Walpole.  Put that down.  Then put down Sir Colenso Ridgeon.

The newspaper man.  Pigeon?

Walpole.  Ridgeon. [Contemptuously snatching his book] Here:  youd better let me write the names down for you:  youre sure to get them wrong.  That comes of belonging to an illiterate profession, with no qualifications and no public register. [He writes the particulars].

The newspaper man.  Oh, I say:  you have got your knife into us, havnt you?