Cuthbertson (compassionately).  You mustn’t think about that, Craven:  perhaps he was mistaken. (He sighs deeply and sits down.) But he is certainly a very clever fellow.  He thinks twice before he commits himself. (They sit in silence, full of the gloomiest thoughts.  Suddenly Paramore enters, pale and in the utmost disorder, with the British Medical Journal in his clenched hand.  They rise in alarm.  He tries to speak, but chokes, clutches at his throat, and staggers.  Cuthbertson quickly takes his chair and places it behind Paramore, who sinks into it as they crowd about him, Craven at his right shoulder, Cuthbertson on his left, and Julia behind Craven.)

Craven.  What’s the matter, Paramore?

Julia.  Are you ill?

Cuthbertson.  No bad news, I hope?

Paramore (despairingly).  The worst of news!  Terrible news!  Fatal news! 
My disease—­

Craven (quickly).  Do you mean my disease?

Paramore (fiercely).  I mean my disease—­Paramore’s disease—­the disease I discovered—­the work of my life.  Look here (pointing to the B. M. J. with a ghastly expression of horror.) If this is true, it was all a mistake:  there is no such disease. (Cuthbertson and Julia look at one another, hardly daring to believe the good news.)

Craven (in strong remonstrance).  And you call this bad news!  Now really, Paramore—­

Paramore (cutting him short hoarsely).  It’s natural for you to think only of yourself.  I don’t blame you:  all invalids are selfish.  Only a scientific man can feel what I feel now. (Writhing under a sense of intolerable injustice.) It’s the fault of the wickedly sentimental laws of this country.  I was not able to make experiments enough—­only three dogs and a monkey.  Think of that, with all Europe full of my professional rivals—­men burning to prove me wrong!  There is freedom in France—­enlightened republican France.  One Frenchman experiments on two hundred monkeys to disprove my theory.  Another sacrifices 36 pounds—­three hundred dogs at three francs apiece—­to upset the monkey experiments.  A third proves them to be both wrong by a single experiment in which he gets the temperature of a camel’s liver 60 degrees below zero.  And now comes this cursed Italian who has ruined me.  He has a government grant to buy animals with, besides the run of the largest hospital in Italy. (With desperate resolution) But I won’t be beaten by any Italian.  I’ll go to Italy myself.  I’ll re-discover my disease:  I know it exists; I feel it; and I’ll prove it if I have to experiment on every mortal animal that’s got a liver at all. (He folds his arms and breathes hard at them.)

Craven (his sense of injury growing upon him).  Am I to understand, Paramore, that you took it on yourself to pass sentence of death—­yes, of Death—­on me, on the strength of three dogs and an infernal monkey?