Paramore (utterly contemptuous of Craven’s narrow personal view of the matter).  Yes.  That was all I could get a license for.

Craven.  Now upon my soul, Paramore, I’m vexed at this.  I don’t wish to be unfriendly; but I’m extremely vexed, really.  Why, confound it, do you realize what you’ve done?  You’ve cut off my meat and drink for a year—­made me an object of public scorn—­a miserable vegetarian and a teetotaller.

Paramore (rising).  Well, you can make up for lost time now. (Bitterly, shewing Craven the Journal) There! you can read for yourself.  The camel was fed on beef dissolved in alcohol; and he gained weight under it.  Eat and drink as much as you please. (Still unable to stand without support, he makes his way past Cuthbertson to the revolving bookcase and stands there with his back to them, leaning on it with his head on his hand.)

Craven (grumbling).  Oh yes, it’s very easy for you to talk, Paramore.  But what am I to say to the Humanitarian societies and the Vegetarian societies that have made me a Vice President?

Cuthbertson (chuckling).  Aha!  You made a virtue of it, did you, Dan?

Craven (warmly).  I made a virtue of necessity, Jo.  No one can blame me.

Julia (soothing him).  Well, never mind, Daddy.  Come back to the dining room and have a good beefsteak.

Craven (shuddering).  Ugh! (Plaintively) No:  I’ve lost my old manly taste for it.  My very nature’s been corrupted by living on pap. (To Paramore.) That’s what comes of all this vivisection.  You go experimenting on horses; and of course the result is that you try to get me into condition by feeding me on beans.

Paramore (curtly, without changing his position).  Well, if they’ve done you good, so much the better for you.

Craven (querulously).  That’s all very well; but it’s very vexing.  You don’t half see how serious it is to make a man believe that he has only another year to live:  you really don’t, Paramore:  I can’t help saying it.  I’ve made my will, which was altogether unnecessary; and I’ve been reconciled to a lot of people I’d quarrelled with—­people I can’t stand under ordinary circumstances.  Then I’ve let the girls get round me at home to an extent I should never have done if I’d had my life before me.  I’ve done a lot of serious thinking and reading and extra church going.  And now it turns out simple waste of time.  On my soul, it’s too disgusting:  I’d far rather die like a man when I said I would.

Paramore (as before).  Perhaps you may.  Your heart’s shaky, if that’s any satisfaction to you.

Craven (offended).  You must excuse me, Paramore, if I say that I no longer feel any confidence in your opinion as a medical man.  (Paramore’s eye flashes:  he straightens himself and listens.) I paid you a pretty stiff fee for that consultation when you condemned me; and I can’t say I think you gave me value for it.