Charteris (putting his hand on Craven’s shoulder).  Come, Craven; advise me.  You’ve been in this sort of fix yourself probably.

Craven.  Charteris:  no woman writes such letters to a man unless he has made advances to her.

Charteris (mournfully).  How little you know the world, Colonel!  The New Woman is not like that.

Craven.  I can only give you very old fashioned advice, my boy; and that is that it’s well to be off with the Old Woman before you’re on with the New.  I’m sorry you told me.  You might have waited for my death:  it’s not far off now. (His head droops again.  Julia and Paramore enter on the right.  Julia stops as she catches sight of Charteris, her face clouding and her breast heaving.  Paramore, seeing the Colonel apparently ill, hurries down to him with the bedside manner in full play.)

Charteris (seeing Julia).  Oh Lord! (He retreats under the lee of the revolving bookstand.)

Paramore (sympathetically to the Colonel).  Allow me. (Takes his wrist and begins to count his pulse.)

Craven (looking up).  Eh? (Withdraws his hand and rises rather crossly.) No, Paramore:  it’s not my liver now:  it’s private business.  (A chase now begins between Julia and Charteris, all the more exciting to them because the huntress and her prey must alike conceal the real object of their movements from the others.  Charteris first makes for the right hand door.  Julia immediately moves back to it, barring his path.  He doubles back round the bookstand, setting it whirling as he makes for the left door, Julia crossing in pursuit of him.  He is about to escape when he is cut off by the return of Cuthbertson.  He turns back and sees Julia close upon him.  There being nothing else for it, he bolts up into the recess to the left of the fireplace.)

Cuthbertson.  Good morning, Miss Craven. (They shake hands.) Won’t you join us at lunch?  Paramore’s coming too.

Julia.  Thanks:  I shall be very pleased. (She goes up with affected purposelessness towards the recess.  Charteris, almost trapped in it, crosses to the right hand recess by way of the fender, knocking down the fire irons with a crash as he does so.)

Craven (who has crossed to the whirling bookcase and stopped it).  What the dickens are you doing there, Charteris?

Charteris.  Nothing.  It’s such a confounded room to get about in.

Julia (maliciously).  Yes, isn’t it. (She is moving back to guard the right hand door, when Cuthbertson appears at it.)

Cuthbertson.  May I take you down? (He offers her his arm.)

Julia.  No, really:  you know it’s against the rules of the club to coddle women in any way.  Whoever is nearest to the door goes first.

Cuthbertson.  Oh well, if you insist.  Come, gentlemen:  let us go to lunch in the Ibsen fashion—­the unsexed fashion. (He goes out on the left followed by Paramore, laughing.  Craven goes last.  He turns at the door to see whether Julia is coming, and stops when he sees she is not.)