.

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.

      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.)

      PARAMORE. Thanks. Quite well, I hope?

      GRACE. Quite, thank you. You’re looking overworked. We must take more care of you, Doctor.

      PARAMORE. You are very kind.

      GRACE. It is you who are too kind — to your patients. You sacrifice yourself. Have a little rest. Come and talk to me — tell me all about the latest scientific discoveries, and what I ought to read to keep myself up to date. But perhaps you’re busy.

      PARAMORE. No, not at all. Only too delighted. (They go into the recess on Ibsen’s left, and sit there chatting in whispers, very confidentially.)

      CHARTERIS. How they all love a doctor! They can say what they like to him! (Julia returns. He takes his feet down from the ladder and sits up.) Whew! (Julia wanders down his side of the room, apparently looking for someone. Charteris steals after her.)

      CHARTERIS (in a low voice). Looking for me, Julia?

      JULIA (starting violently). Oh! How you startled me!

      CHARTERIS. Sh! I want to shew you something. Look! (He points to the pair in the recess.)

      JULIA (jealously). That woman!

      CHARTERIS. My young woman, carrying off your young man.

      JULIA. What do you mean? Do you dare insinuate —

      CHARTERIS. Sh — sh — sh! Don’t disturb them. (Paramore rises; takes down a book; and sits on a footstool at Grace’s feet.)

      JULIA. Why are they whispering like that?

      CHARTERIS. Because they don’t want anyone to hear what they are saying to one another. (Paramore shews Grace a picture in the book. They both laugh heartily over it.)

      JULIA. What is he shewing her?

      CHARTERIS. Probably a diagram of the liver. (Julia, with an exclamation of disgust makes for the recess. Charteris catches her sleeve.) Stop: be careful, Julia. (She frees herself by giving him a push which upsets him into the easy chair; then crosses to the recess and stands looking down at Grace and Paramore from the corner next the fireplace.)

      JULIA (with suppressed fury). You seem to have found a very interesting book, Dr. Paramore. (They look up, astonished.) May I ask what it is? (She stoops swiftly; snatches the book from Paramore; and comes down to the table quickly to look at it whilst they rise in amazement.) Good Words! (She flings it on the table and sweeps back past Charteris, exclaiming contemptuously) You fool! (Paramore and Grace, meanwhile, come from the recess; Paramore bewildered, Grace very determined.)

      CHARTERIS (aside to Julia as he gets out of the easy chair). Idiot! She’ll have you turned out of the club for this.

      JULIA (terrified). She can’t — can she?

      PARAMORE. What is the matter, Miss Craven?

      CHARTERIS (hastily). Nothing — my fault — a stupid, practical joke. I beg your pardon and Mrs. Tranfield’s.

      GRACE (firmly). It is not your fault in the least, Mr. Charteris. Dr. Paramore: will you oblige me by finding Sylvia Craven for me, if you can?

      PARAMORE (hesitating). But —

      GRACE. I want you to go now, if you please.

      PARAMORE (succumbing). Certainly. (He bows and goes out by the staircase door.)

      GRACE. You are going with him, Charteris.

      JULIA. You will not leave me here to be insulted by this woman, Mr. Charteris. (She takes his arm as if to go with him.)

      GRACE. When two ladies quarrel in this club, it is against the rules to settle it when there are gentlemen present — especially the gentleman they are quarrelling about. I presume you do not wish to break that rule, Miss Craven. (Julia sullenly drops Charteris’s arm. Grace turns to Charteris and adds) Now! Trot off.

      CHARTERIS. Certainly, certainly. (He follows Paramore ignominiously.)

      GRACE (to Julia, with quiet peremptoriness). Now: what have you to say to me?

      JULIA (suddenly throwing herself tragically on her knees at Grace’s feet). Don’t take him from me. Oh don’t — don’t be so cruel. Give him back to me. You don’t know what you’re doing — what our past has been — how I love him. You don’t know —

      GRACE. Get up; and don’t be a fool. Suppose anyone comes in and sees you in that ridiculous attitude!

      JULIA. I hardly