(Cuthbertson is seated in the easy chair at the revolving bookstand, reading the “Daily Graphic.”  Dr. Paramore is on the divan in the right hand recess, reading “The British Medical Journal.”  He is young as age is counted in the professions—­barely forty.  His hair is wearing bald on his forehead; and his dark arched eyebrows, coming rather close together, give him a conscientiously sinister appearance.  He wears the frock coat and cultivates the “bedside manner” of the fashionable physician with scrupulous conventionality.  Not at all a happy or frank man, but not consciously unhappy nor intentionally insincere, and highly self satisfied intellectually.

Sylvia Craven is sitting in the middle of the settee before the fire, only the back of her head being visible.  She is reading a volume of Ibsen.  She is a girl of eighteen, small and trim, wearing a smart tailor-made dress, rather short, and a Newmarket jacket, showing a white blouse with a light silk sash and a man’s collar and watch chain so arranged as to look as like a man’s waistcoat and shirt-front as possible without spoiling the prettiness of the effect.  A Page Boy’s voice, monotonously calling for Dr. Paramore, is heard approaching outside on the right.)

Page (outside).  Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore. (He enters carrying a salver with a card on it.) Dr. Par—­

Paramore (sharply, sitting up).  Here, boy. (The boy presents the salver.  Paramore takes the card and looks at it.) All right:  I’ll come down to him. (The boy goes.  Paramore rises, and comes from the recess, throwing his paper on the table.) Good morning, Mr. Cuthbertson (stopping to pull out his cuffs and shake his coat straight) Mrs. Tranfield quite well, I hope?

Sylvia (turning her head indignantly).  Sh—­sh—­sh! (Paramore turns, surprised.  Cuthbertson rises energetically and looks across the bookstand to see who is the author of this impertinence.)

Paramore (to Sylvia—­stiffly).  I beg your pardon, Miss Craven:  I did not mean to disturb you.

Sylvia (flustered and self assertive).  You may talk as much as you like if you will only have the common consideration to first ask whether the other people object.  What I protest against is your assumption that my presence doesn’t matter because I’m only a female member.  That’s all.  Now go on, pray:  you don’t disturb me in the least. (She turns to the fire, and again buries herself in Ibsen.)

Cuthbertson (with emphatic dignity).  No gentleman would have dreamt of objecting to our exchanging a few words, madam. (She takes no notice.  He resumes angrily.) As a matter of fact I was about to say to Dr. Paramore that if he would care to bring his visitor up here, I should not object.  The impudence! (Dashes his paper down on the chair.)

Paramore.  Oh, many thanks; but it’s only an instrument maker.

Cuthbertson.  Any new medical discoveries, doctor?