Paramore (contemptuously).  The turf!!  Certainly not.

Charteris.  Paramore:  if the loan of all I possess will help you over this difficulty, you’re welcome to it.

Paramore (rising in surprise).  Charteris!  I—­ (suspiciously.) Are you joking?

Charteris.  Why on earth do you always suspect me of joking?  I never was more serious in my life.

Paramore (shamed by Charteris’s generosity).  Then I beg your pardon.  I thought the news would please you.

Charteris (deprecating this injustice to his good feeling).  My dear fellow—!

Paramore.  I see I was wrong.  I am really very sorry. (They shake hands.) And now you may as well learn the truth.  I had rather you heard it from me than from the gossip of the club.  My liver discovery has been—­er—­er—­(he cannot bring himself to say it).

Charteris (helping him out).  Confirmed? (Sadly.) I see:  the poor Colonel’s doomed.

Paramore.  No:  on the contrary, it has been—­er—­called in question.  The Colonel now believes himself to be in perfectly good health; and my friendly relations with the Cravens are entirely spoiled.

Charteris.  Who told him about it?

Paramore.  I did, of course, the moment I read the news in this. (He shews the Journal and puts it down on the bookstand.)

Charteris.  Why, man, you’ve been a messenger of glad tidings!  Didn’t you congratulate him?

Paramore (scandalised).  Congratulate him!  Congratulate a man on the worst blow pathological science has received for the last three hundred years!

Charteris.  No, no, no.  Congratulate him on having his life saved.  Congratulate Julia on having her father spared.  Swear that your discovery and your reputation are as nothing to you compared with the pleasure of restoring happiness to the household in which the best hopes of your life are centred.  Confound it, man, you’ll never get married if you can’t turn things to account with a woman in these little ways.

Paramore (gravely).  Excuse me; but my self-respect is dearer to me even than Miss Craven.  I cannot trifle with scientific questions for the sake of a personal advantage. (He turns away coldly and goes toward the table.)

Charteris.  Well, this beats me!  The nonconformist conscience is bad enough; but the scientific conscience is the very devil. (He follows Paramore and puts his arm familiarly round his shoulder, bringing him back again whilst he speaks.) Now look here, Paramore:  I’ve got no conscience in that sense at all:  I loathe it as I loathe all the snares of idealism; but I have some common humanity and common sense.  (He replaces him in the easy chair and sits down opposite him.) Come:  what is a really scientific theory?—­a true theory, isn’t it?

Paramore.  No doubt.