Craven (playfully).  Vulgar little girl! (He pinches her ear.) Shall we come, Jo!  You’ll be the better for a pick-me-up after all this emotion.

Cuthbertson.  I’m not ashamed of it, Dan.  It has done me good. (He goes up to the table and shakes his fist at the bust over the mantelpiece.) It would do you good too if you had eyes and ears to take it in.

Craven (astonished).  Who?

Sylvia.  Why, good old Henrik, of course.

Craven (puzzled).  Henrik?

Cuthbertson (impatiently).  Ibsen, man:  Ibsen. (He goes out by the staircase door followed by Sylvia, who kisses her hand to the bust as she passes.  Craven stares blankly after her, and then up at the bust.  Giving the problem up as insoluble, he shakes his head and follows them.  Near the door he checks himself and comes back.)

Craven (softly).  By the way, Paramore?—­

Paramore (rousing himself with an effort).  Yes?

Craven.  You weren’t in earnest that time about my heart, were you?

Paramore.  Oh, nothing, nothing.  There’s a slight murmur—­mitral valves a little worn, perhaps; but they’ll last your time if you’re careful.  Don’t smoke too much.

Craven.  What!  More privations!  Now really, Paramore, really—­

Paramore (rising distractedly).  Excuse me:  I can’t pursue the subject. 
I—­I—­

Julia.  Don’t worry him now, Daddy.

Craven.  Well, well:  I won’t. (He comes to Paramore, who is pacing restlessly up and down the middle of the room.) Come, Paramore, I’m not selfish, believe me:  I can feel for your disappointment.  But you must face it like a man.  And after all, now really, doesn’t this shew that there’s a lot of rot about modern science?  Between ourselves, you know, it’s horribly cruel:  you must admit that it’s a deuced nasty thing to go ripping up and crucifying camels and monkeys.  It must blunt all the finer feelings sooner or later.

Paramore (turning on him).  How many camels and horses and men were ripped up in that Soudan campaign where you won your Victoria Cross, Colonel Craven?

Craven (firing up).  That was fair fighting—­a very different thing,
Paramore.

Paramore.  Yes, Martinis and machine guns against naked spearmen.

Craven (hotly).  I took my chance with the rest, Dr. Paramore.  I risked my own life:  don’t forget that.

Paramore (with equal spirit).  And I have risked mine, as all doctors do, oftener than any soldier.

Craven.  That’s true.  I didn’t think of that.  I beg your pardon, Paramore:  I’ll never say another word against your profession.  But I hope you’ll let me stick to the good old-fashioned shaking up treatment for my liver—­a clinking run across country with the hounds.

Paramore (with bitter irony).  Isn’t that rather cruel—­a pack of dogs ripping up a fox?