Paramore.  Well, since you ask me, yes—­perhaps a most important one.  I have discovered something that has hitherto been overlooked—­a minute duct in the liver of the guinea pig.  Miss Craven will forgive my mentioning it when I say that it may throw an important light on her father’s case.  The first thing, of course, is to find out what the duct is there for.

Cuthbertson (reverently—­feeling that he is in the presence of science).  Indeed.  How will you do that?

Paramore.  Oh, easily enough, by simply cutting the duct and seeing what will happen to the guinea pig. (Sylvia rises, horrified.) I shall require a knife specially made to get at it.  The man who is waiting for me downstairs has brought me a few handles to try before fitting it and sending it to the laboratory.  I am afraid it would not do to bring such weapons up here.

Sylvia.  If you attempt such a thing, Dr. Paramore, I will complain to the committee.  The majority of the committee are anti-vivisectionists.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself. (She flounces out at the right hand door.)

Paramore (with patient contempt).  That’s the sort of thing we scientific men have to put up with nowadays, Mr. Cuthbertson.  Ignorance, superstition, sentimentality:  they are all one.  A guinea pig’s convenience is set above the health and lives of the entire human race.

Cuthbertson (vehemently).  It’s not ignorance or superstition, Paramore:  it’s sheer downright Ibsenism:  that’s what it is.  I’ve been wanting to sit comfortably at the fire the whole morning; but I’ve never had a chance with that girl there.  I couldn’t go and plump myself down on a seat beside her:  goodness knows what she’d think I wanted.  That’s one of the delights of having women in the club:  when they come in here they all want to sit at the fire and adore that bust.  I sometimes feel that I should like to take the poker and fetch it a wipe across the nose—­ugh!

Paramore.  I must say I prefer the elder Miss Craven to her sister.

Cuthbertson (his eyes lighting up).  Ah, Julia!  I believe you.  A splendid fine creature—­every inch a woman.  No Ibsenism about her!

Paramore.  I quite agree with you there, Mr. Cuthbertson.  Er—­by the way, do you think is Miss Craven attached to Charteris at all?

Cuthbertson.  What, that fellow!  Not he.  He hangs about after her; but he’s not man enough for her.  A woman of that sort likes a strong, manly, deep-throated, broad-chested man.

Paramore (anxiously).  Hm, a sort of sporting character, you think?

Cuthbertson.  Oh, no, no.  A scientific man, perhaps, like yourself.  But you know what I mean—­a man. (Strikes himself a sounding blow on the chest.)

Paramore.  Of course; but Charteris is a man.

Cuthbertson.  Pah! you don’t see what I mean. (The Page Boy returns with his salver.)