Cuthbertson.  Never!  Never!

Charteris.  Oh, bother?  Come, don’t behave like a couple of conventional old fathers:  this is a serious affair.  Look at these letters (producing a letter and a letter-card.) This (showing the card) is from Grace—­by the way, Cuthbertson, I wish you’d ask her not to write on letter-cards:  the blue colour makes it so easy for Julia to pick the bits out of my waste paper basket and piece them together.  Now listen.  “My dear Leonard:  Nothing could make it worth my while to be exposed to such scenes as last night’s.  You had much better go back to Julia and forget me.  Yours sincerely, Grace Tranfield.”

Cuthbertson (infuriated).  Damnation!

Charteris (turning to Craven and preparing to read the letter).  Now for Julia. (The Colonel turns away to hide his face from Charteris, anticipating a shock, and puts his hand on a chair to steady himself.) “My dearest boy.  Nothing will make me believe that this odious woman can take my place in your heart.  I send some of the letters you wrote me when we first met; and I ask you to read them.  They will recall what you felt when you wrote them.  You cannot have changed so much as to be indifferent to me:  whoever may have struck your fancy for the moment, your heart is still mine”—­and so on:  you know the sort of thing—­“Ever and always your loving Julia.” (The Colonel sinks on the chair and covers his face with his hand.) You don’t suppose she’s serious, do you:  that’s the sort of thing she writes me three times a day. (To Cuthbertson) Grace is in earnest though, confound it. (He holds out Grace’s letter.) A blue card as usual!  This time I shall not trust the waste paper basket. (He goes to the fire, and throws the letters into it.)

Cuthbertson (facing him with folded arms as he comes down again).  May I ask, Mr. Charteris, is this the New Humour?

Charteris (still too preoccupied with his own difficulty to have any sense of the effect he is producing on the others).  Oh, stuff!  Do you suppose it’s a joke to be situated as I am?  You’ve got your head so stuffed with the New Humour and the New Woman and the New This, That and the Other, all mixed up with your own old Adam, that you’ve lost your senses.

Cuthbertson (strenuously).  Do you see that old man, grown grey in the honoured service of his country, whose last days you have blighted?

Charteris (surprised, looking at Craven and realizing his distress with genuine concern).  I’m very sorry.  Come, Craven; don’t take it to heart. (Craven shakes his head.) I assure you it means nothing:  it happens to me constantly.

Cuthbertson.  There is only one excuse for you.  You are not fully responsible for your actions.  Like all advanced people, you have got neurasthenia.

Charteris (appalled).  Great Heavens! what’s that?

Cuthbertson.  I decline to explain.  You know as well as I do.  I am going downstairs now to order lunch.  I shall order it for three; but the third place is for Paramore, whom I have invited, not for you. (He goes out through the left hand door.)