Craven.  Just imagine your being Jo Cuthbertson, though!  That’s a far more extraordinary coincidence, because I’d got it into my head that your name was Tranfield.

Cuthbertson.  Oh, that’s my daughter’s name.  She’s a widow, you know.  How uncommonly well you look, Dan!  The years haven’t hurt you much.

Craven (suddenly becoming unnaturally gloomy).  I look well.  I even feel well.  But my days are numbered.

Cuthbertson (alarmed).  Oh don’t say that, my dear fellow.  I hope not.

Julia (with anguish in her voice).  Daddy! (Cuthbertson looks inquiringly around at her.)

Craven.  There, there, my dear:  I was wrong to talk of it.  It’s a sad subject.  But it’s better that Cuthbertson should know.  We used to be very close friends, and are so still, I hope. (Cuthbertson goes to Craven and presses his hand silently; then returns to sofa and sits, pulling out his handkerchief and displaying some emotion. )

Charteris (a little impatiently).  The fact is, Cuthbertson, Craven’s a devout believer in the department of witchcraft called medical science.  He’s celebrated in all the medical schools as an example of the newest sort of liver complaint.  The doctors say he can’t last another year; and he has fully made up his mind not to survive next Easter, just to oblige them.

Craven (with military affectation).  It’s very kind of you to try to keep up my spirits by making light of it, Charteris.  But I shall be ready when my time comes.  I’m a soldier. (A sob from Julia.) Don’t cry, Julia.

Cuthbertson (huskily).  I hope you may long be spared, Dan.

Craven.  To oblige me, Jo, change the subject. (He gets up and again posts himself on the hearthrug with his back to the fire.)

Charteris.  Try and persuade him to join our club, Cuthbertson.  He mopes.

Julia.  It’s no use.  Sylvia and I are always at him to join; but he won’t.

Craven.  My child, I have my own club.

Charteris (contemptuously).  Yes, the Junior Army and Navy!  Do you call that a club?  Why, they daren’t let a woman cross the doorstep!

Craven (a little ruffled).  Clubs are a matter of taste, Charteris.  You like a cock and hen club:  I don’t.  It’s bad enough to have Julia and her sister—­a girl under twenty—­spending half their time at such a place.  Besides, now really, such a name for a club!  The Ibsen club!  I should be laughed out of London.  The Ibsen club!  Come, Cuthbertson, back me up.  I’m sure you agree with me.

Charteris.  Cuthbertson’s a member.

Craven (amazed).  No!  Why, he’s been talking to me all the evening about the way in which everything is going to the dogs through advanced ideas in the younger generation.

Charteris.  Of course.  He’s been studying it in the club.  He’s always there.