The Philanderer Part 11

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 a.s.s. (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.

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 pa.s.ses. 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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?

JULIA (coming coaxingly between them). Oh, please don't begin arguing again. Do go to the smoking room, Daddy: Mr. Cuthbertson will wonder what has become of you.

CRAVEN. Very well, very well: I'll go. But you're really not reasonable to-day, Paramore, to talk that way of fair sport--

JULIA. Sh--sh (coaxing him toward the door).

CRAVEN. Well, well, I'm off. (He goes good-humoredly, pushed out by Julia.)

JULIA (turning at the door with her utmost witchery of manner). Don't look so disappointed, Dr. Paramore. Cheer up. You've been most kind to us; and you've done papa a lot of good.

PARAMORE (delighted, rus.h.i.+ng over to her). How beautiful it is of you to say that to me, Miss Craven!

JULIA. I hate to see any one unhappy. I can't bear unhappiness. (She runs out, casting a Parthian glance at him as she flies. Paramore stands enraptured, gazing after her through the gla.s.s door. Whilst he is thus absorbed Charteris comes in from the dining room and touches him on the arm.)

PARAMORE (starting). Eh! What's the matter?

CHARTERIS (significantly). Charming woman, isn't she, Paramore?

(Looking admiringly at him.) How have you managed to fascinate her?