Paramore (turning and facing Craven with dignity).  That’s unanswerable, Colonel Craven.  I shall return the fee.

Craven.  Oh, it’s not the money; but I think you ought to realize your position. (Paramore turns stiffly away.  Craven follows him impulsively, exclaiming remorsefully) Well, perhaps it was a nasty thing of me to allude to it. (He offers Paramore his hand.)

Paramore (conscientiously taking it).  Not at all.  You are quite in the right, Colonel Craven.  My diagnosis was wrong; and I must take the consequences.

Craven (holding his hand).  No, don’t say that.  It was natural enough:  my liver is enough to set any man’s diagnosis wrong. (A long handshake, very trying to Paramore’s nerves.  Paramore then retires to the recess on Ibsen’s left, and throws himself on the divan with a half suppressed sob, bending over the British Medical Journal with his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees.)

Cuthbertson (who has been rejoicing with Julia at the other side of the room).  Well, let’s say no more about it.  I congratulate you, Craven, and hope you may long be spared. (Craven offers his hand.) No, Dan:  your daughter first. (He takes Julia’s hand gently and hands her across to Craven, into whose arms she flies with a gush of feeling.)

Julia.  Dear old Daddy!

Craven.  Ah, is Julia glad that the old Dad is let off for a few years more?

Julia (almost crying).  Oh, so glad:  so glad! (Cuthbertson sobs audibly.  The Colonel is affected.  Sylvia, entering from the dining room, stops abruptly at the door on seeing the three.  Paramore, in the recess, escapes her notice.)

Sylvia.  Hallo!

Craven.  Tell her the news, Julia:  it would sound ridiculous from me.  (He goes to the weeping Cuthbertson, and pats him consolingly on the shoulder.)

Julia.  Silly:  only think!  Dad’s not ill at all.  It was only a mistake of Dr. Paramore’s.  Oh, dear! (She catches Craven’s left hand and stoops to kiss it, his right hand being still on Cuthbertson’s shoulder.)

Sylvia (contemptuously).  I knew it.  Of course it was nothing but eating too much.  I always said Paramore was an ass. (Sensation.  Cuthbertson, Craven and Julia turn in consternation.)

Paramore (without malice).  Never mind, Miss Craven.  That is what is being said all over Europe now.  Never mind.

Sylvia (a little abashed).  I’m so sorry, Dr. Paramore.  You must excuse a daughter’s feelings.

Craven (huffed).  It evidently doesn’t make much difference to you, Sylvia.

Sylvia.  I’m not going to be sentimental over it, Dad, you may bet.  (Coming to Craven.) Besides, I knew it was nonsense all along.  (Petting him.) Poor dear old Dad! why should your days be numbered any more than any one else’s? (He pats her cheek, mollified.  Julia impatiently turns away from them.) Come to the smoking room, and let’s see what you can do after teetotalling for a year.