Charteris.  Gloves?

Sylvia.  No:  cigarettes.

Charteris.  Done!  But what does she think about it?  Does she give him any encouragement?

Sylvia.  Oh, the usual thing.  Enough to keep any other woman from getting him.

Charteris.  Just so.  I understand.  Now listen to me:  I am going to speak as a philosopher.  Julia is jealous of everybody—­everybody.  If she saw you flirting with Paramore she’d begin to value him directly.  You might play up a little, Craven, for my sake—­eh?

Sylvia (rising).  You’re too awful, Leonard.  For shame?  However, anything to oblige a fellow Ibsenite.  I’ll bear your affair in mind.  But I think it would be more effective if you got Grace to do it.

Charteris.  Think so?  Hm! perhaps you’re right.

Page boy (outside as before).  Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore, Dr.
Paramore—­

Sylvia.  They ought to get that boy’s voice properly cultivated:  it’s a disgrace to the club. (She goes into the recess on Ibsen’s left.  The page enters carrying the British Medical Journal.)

Charteris (calling to the page).  Dr. Paramore is in the dining room.

Page boy.  Thank you, sir. (He is about to go into the dining room when
Sylvia swoops on him.)

Sylvia.  Here:  where are you taking that paper?  It belongs to this room.

Page boy.  It’s Dr. Paramore’s particular orders, miss.  The British
Medical Journal has always to be brought to him dreckly it comes.

Sylvia.  What cheek?  Charteris:  oughtn’t we to stop this on principle?

Charteris.  Certainly not.  Principle’s the poorest reason I know for making yourself nasty.

Sylvia.  Bosh!  Ibsen!

Charteris (to the page).  Off with you, my boy:  Dr. Paramore’s waiting breathless with expectation.

Page boy (seriously).  Indeed, sir. (He hurries off.)

Charteris.  That boy will make his way in this country.  He has no sense of humour. (Grace comes in.  Her dress, very convenient and businesslike, is made to please herself and serve her own purposes without the slightest regard to fashion, though by no means without a careful concern for her personal elegance.  She enters briskly, like an habitually busy woman.)

Sylvia (running to her).  Here you are at last Tranfield, old girl. 
I’ve been waiting for you this last hour.  I’m starving.

Grace.  All right, dear. (To Charteris.) Did you get my letter?

Charteris.  Yes.  I wish you wouldn’t write on those confounded blue letter cards.

Sylvia (to Grace).  Shall I go down first and secure a table?

Charteris (taking the reply out of Grace’s mouth).  Do, old boy.

Sylvia.  Don’t be too long. (She goes into the dining room.)