Charteris.  For instance, you have a theory about Craven’s liver, eh?

Paramore.  I still believe that to be a true theory, though it has been upset for the moment.

Charteris.  And you have a theory that it would be pleasant to be married to Julia?

Paramore.  I suppose so—­in a sense.

Charteris.  That theory also will be upset, probably, before you’re a year older.

Paramore.  Always cynical, Charteris.

Charteris.  Never mind that.  Now it’s a perfectly damnable thing for you to hope that your liver theory is true, because it amounts to hoping that Craven will die an agonizing death. (This strikes Paramore as paradoxical; but it startles him.) But it’s amiable and human to hope that your theory about Julia is right, because it amounts to hoping that she may live happily ever after.

Paramore.  I do hope that with all my soul—­(correcting himself) I mean with all my function of hoping.

Charteris.  Then, since both theories are equally scientific, why not devote yourself, as a humane man, to proving the amiable theory rather than the damnable one?

Paramore.  But how?

Charteris.  I’ll tell you.  You think I’m fond of Julia myself.  So I am; but then I’m fond of everybody; so I don’t count.  Besides, if you try the scientific experiment of asking her whether she loves me, she’ll tell you that she hates and despises me.  So I’m out of the running.  Nevertheless, like you, I hope that she may be happy with all my—­what did you call your soul?

Paramore (impatiently).  Oh, go on, go on:  finish what you were going to say.

Charteris (suddenly affecting complete indifference, and rising carelessly).  I don’t know that I have anything more to say.  If I were you I should invite the Cravens to tea in honor of the Colonel’s escape from a horrible doom.  By the way, if you’ve done with that British Medical Journal, I should like to see how they’ve smashed your theory up.

Paramore (wincing as he also rises).  Oh, certainly, if you wish it.  I have no objection. (He takes the Journal from the bookstand.) I admit that the Italian experiments apparently upset my theory.  But please remember that it is doubtful—­extremely doubtful—­whether anything can be proved by experiments on animals. (He hands Charteris the Journal.)

Charteris (taking it).  It doesn’t matter:  I don’t intend to make any.  (He retires to the recess on Ibsen’s right, picking up the step ladder as he passes and placing it so that he is able to use it for a leg rest as he settles himself to read on the divan with his back to the corner of the mantelpiece.  Paramore goes to the left hand door, and is about to leave the library when he meets Grace entering.)

Grace.  How do you do, Dr. Paramore.  So glad to see you. (They shake hands.)