The Doctor's Dilemma, by George Bernard Shaw

Act ii

After dinner on the terrace at the Star and Garter, Richmond. Cloudless summer night; nothing disturbs the stillness except from time to time the long trajectory of a distant train and the measured clucking of oars coming up from the Thames in the valley below. The dinner is over; and three of the eight chairs are empty. Sir Patrick, with his back to the view, is at the head of the square table with Ridgeon. The two chairs opposite them are empty. On their right come, first, a vacant chair, and then one very fully occupied by B. B., who basks blissfully in the moonbeams. On their left, Schutzmacher and Walpole. The entrance to the hotel is on their right, behind B. B. The five men are silently enjoying their coffee and cigarets, full of food, and not altogether void of wine.

Mrs Dubedat, wrapped up for departure, comes in. They rise, except Sir Patrick; but she takes one of the vacant places at the foot of the table, next B. B.; and they sit down again.

Mrs Dubedat [as she enters] Louis will be here presently. He is shewing Dr Blenkinsop how to work the telephone. [She sits.] Oh, I am so sorry we have to go. It seems such a shame, this beautiful night. And we have enjoyed ourselves so much.

Ridgeon. I dont believe another half-hour would do Mr Dubedat a bit of harm.

Sir Patrick. Come now, Colly, come! come! none of that. You take your man home, Mrs Dubedat; and get him to bed before eleven.

B. B. Yes, yes. Bed before eleven. Quite right, quite right. Sorry to lose you, my dear lady; but Sir Patrick’s orders are the laws of — er — of Tyre and Sidon.

Walpole. Let me take you home in my motor.

Sir Patrick. No. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Walpole. Your motor will take Mr and Mrs Dubedat to the station, and quite far enough too for an open carriage at night.

Mrs Dubedat. Oh, I am sure the train is best.

Ridgeon. Well, Mrs Dubedat, we have had a most enjoyable evening.

Walpole. { Most enjoyable.
B. B. { Delightful. Charming. Unforgettable.

Mrs Dubedat [with a touch of shy anxiety] What did you think of Louis? Or am I wrong to ask?

Ridgeon. Wrong! Why, we are all charmed with him.

Walpole. Delighted.

B. B. Most happy to have met him. A privilege, a real privilege.

Sir Patrick [grunts]!

Mrs Dubedat [quickly] Sir Patrick: are YOU uneasy about him?

Sir Patrick [discreetly] I admire his drawings greatly, maam.

Mrs Dubedat. Yes; but I meant —

Ridgeon. You shall go away quite happy. He’s worth saving. He must and shall be saved.

Mrs Dubedat rises and gasps with delight, relief, and gratitude. They all rise except Sir Patrick and Schutzmacher, and come reassuringly to her.

B. B. Certainly, CER-tainly.

Walpole. Theres no real difficulty, if only you know what to do.

Mrs Dubedat. Oh, how can I ever thank you! From this night I can begin to be happy at last. You dont know what I feel.

She sits down in tears. They crowd about her to console her.

B. B. My dear lady: come come! come come! [very persuasively] come come!

Walpole. Dont mind us. Have a good cry.

Ridgeon. No: dont cry. Your husband had better not know that weve been talking about him.

Mrs Dubedat [quickly pulling herself together] No, of course not. Please dont mind me. What a glorious thing it must be to be a doctor! [They laugh]. Dont laugh. You dont know what youve done for me. I never knew until now how deadly afraid I was — how I had come to dread the worst. I never dared let myself know. But now the relief has come: now I know.

Louis Dubedat comes from the hotel, in his overcoat, his throat wrapped in a shawl. He is a slim young man of 23, physically still a stripling, and pretty, though not effeminate. He has turquoise blue eyes, and a trick of looking you straight in the face with them, which, combined with a frank smile, is very engaging. Although he is all nerves, and very observant and quick of apprehension, he is not in the least shy. He is younger than Jennifer; but he patronizes her as a matter of course. The doctors do not put him out in the least: neither Sir Patrick’s years nor Bloomfield Bonington’s majesty have the smallest apparent effect on him: he is as natural as a cat: he moves among men as most men move among things, though he is intentionally making himself agreeable to them on this occasion. Like all people who can be depended on to take care of themselves, he is welcome company; and his artist’s power of appealing to the imagination gains him credit for all sorts of qualities and powers, whether he possesses them or not.

Louis [pulling on his gloves behind Ridgeon’s chair] Now, Jinny–Gwinny: the motor has come round.

Ridgeon. Why do you let him spoil your beautiful name like that, Mrs Dubedat?

Mrs Dubedat. Oh, on grand occasions I am Jennifer.

B. B. You are a bachelor: you do not understand these things, Ridgeon. Look at me [They look]. I also have two names. In moments of domestic worry, I am simple Ralph. When the sun shines in the home, I am Beedle–Deedle-Dumkins. Such is married life! Mr Dubedat: may I ask you to do me a favor before you go. Will you sign your name to this menu card, under the sketch you have made of me?

Walpole. Yes; and mine too, if you will be so good.

Louis. Certainly. [He sits down and signs the cards].

Mrs Dubedat. Wont you sign Dr Schutzmacher’s for him, Louis?

Louis. I dont think Dr Schutzmacher is pleased with his portrait. I’ll tear it up. [He reaches across the table for Schutzmacher’s menu card, and is about to tear it. Schutzmacher makes no sign].

Ridgeon. No, no: if Loony doesnt want it, I do.

Louis. I’ll sign it for you with pleasure. [He signs and hands it to Ridgeon]. Ive just been making a little note of the river to-night: it will work up into something good [he shews a pocket sketch-book]. I think I’ll call it the Silver Danube.

B. B. Ah, charming, charming.

Walpole. Very sweet. Youre a nailer at pastel.

Louis coughs, first out of modesty, then from tuberculosis.

Sir Patrick. Now then, Mr Dubedat: youve had enough of the night air. Take him home, maam.

Mrs Dubedat. Yes. Come, Louis.

Ridgeon. Never fear. Never mind. I’ll make that cough all right.

B. B. We will stimulate the phagocytes. [With tender effusion, shaking her hand] Good-night, Mrs Dubedat. Good-night. Good-night.

Walpole. If the phagocytes fail, come to me. I’ll put you right.

Louis. Good-night, Sir Patrick. Happy to have met you.

Sir Patrick. Night [half a grunt].

Mrs Dubedat. Good-night, Sir Patrick.

Sir Patrick. Cover yourself well up. Dont think your lungs are made of iron because theyre better than his. Good-night.

Mrs Dubedat. Thank you. Thank you. Nothing hurts me. Good-night.

Louis goes out through the hotel without noticing Schutzmacher. Mrs Dubedat hesitates, then bows to him. Schutzmacher rises and bows formally, German fashion. She goes out, attended by Ridgeon. The rest resume their seats, ruminating or smoking quietly.

B. B. [harmoniously] Dee-lightful couple! Charming woman! Gifted lad! Remarkable talent! Graceful outlines! Perfect evening! Great success! Interesting case! Glorious night! Exquisite scenery! Capital dinner! Stimulating conversation! Restful outing! Good wine! Happy ending! Touching gratitude! Lucky Ridgeon —

Ridgeon [returning] Whats that? Calling me, B. B.? [He goes back to his seat next Sir Patrick].

B. B. No, no. Only congratulating you on a most successful evening! Enchanting woman! Thorough breeding! Gentle nature! Refined —

Blenkinsop comes from the hotel and takes the empty chair next Ridgeon.

Blenkinsop. I’m so sorry to have left you like this, Ridgeon; but it was a telephone message from the police. Theyve found half a milkman at our level crossing with a prescription of mine in its pocket. Wheres Mr Dubedat?

Ridgeon. Gone.

Blenkinsop [rising, very pale] Gone!

Ridgeon. Just this moment —

Blenkinsop. Perhaps I could overtake him —[he rushes into the hotel].

Walpole [calling after him] He’s in the motor, man, miles off. You can —[giving it up]. No use.

Ridgeon. Theyre really very nice people. I confess I was afraid the husband would turn out an appalling bounder. But he’s almost as charming in his way as she is in hers. And theres no mistake about his being a genius. It’s something to have got a case really worth saving. Somebody else will have to go; but at all events it will be easy to find a worse man.

Sir Patrick. How do you know?

Ridgeon. Come now, Sir Paddy, no growling. Have something more to drink.

Sir Patrick. No, thank you.

Walpole. Do you see anything wrong with Dubedat, B. B.?

B. B. Oh, a charming young fellow. Besides, after all, what could be wrong with him? Look at him. What could be wrong with him?

Sir Patrick. There are two things that can be wrong with any man. One of them is a cheque. The other is a woman. Until you know that a man’s sound on these two points, you know nothing about him.

B. B. Ah, cynic, cynic!

Walpole. He’s all right as to the cheque, for a while at all events. He talked to me quite frankly before dinner as to the pressure of money difficulties on an artist. He says he has no vices and is very economical, but that theres one extravagance he cant afford and yet cant resist; and that is dressing his wife prettily. So I said, bang plump out, “Let me lend you twenty pounds, and pay me when your ship comes home.” He was really very nice about it. He took it like a man; and it was a pleasure to see how happy it made him, poor chap.

B. B. [who has listened to Walpole with growing perturbation] But — but — but — when was this, may I ask?

Walpole. When I joined you that time down by the river.

B. B. But, my dear Walpole, he had just borrowed ten pounds from me.

Walpole. What!

Sir Patrick [grunts]!

B. B. [indulgently] Well, well, it was really hardly borrowing; for he said heaven only knew when he could pay me. I couldnt refuse. It appears that Mrs Dubedat has taken a sort of fancy to me —

Walpole [quickly] No: it was to me.

B. B. Certainly not. Your name was never mentioned between us. He is so wrapped up in his work that he has to leave her a good deal alone; and the poor innocent young fellow — he has of course no idea of my position or how busy I am — actually wanted me to call occasionally and talk to her.

Walpole. Exactly what he said to me!

B. B. Pooh! Pooh pooh! Really, I must say. [Much disturbed, he rises and goes up to the balustrade, contemplating the landscape vexedly].

Walpole. Look here, Ridgeon! this is beginning to look serious.

Blenkinsop, very anxious and wretched, but trying to look unconcerned, comes back.

Ridgeon. Well, did you catch him?

Blenkinsop. No. Excuse my running away like that. [He sits down at the foot of the table, next Bloomfeld Bonington’s chair].

Walpole. Anything the matter?

Blenkinsop. Oh no. A trifle — something ridiculous. It cant be helped. Never mind.

Ridgeon. Was it anything about Dubedat?

Blenkinsop [almost breaking down] I ought to keep it to myself, I know. I cant tell you, Ridgeon, how ashamed I am of dragging my miserable poverty to your dinner after all your kindness. It’s not that you wont ask me again; but it’s so humiliating. And I did so look forward to one evening in my dress clothes (THEYRE still presentable, you see) with all my troubles left behind, just like old times.

Ridgeon. But what has happened?

Blenkinsop. Oh, nothing. It’s too ridiculous. I had just scraped up four shillings for this little outing; and it cost me one-and-fourpence to get here. Well, Dubedat asked me to lend him half-a-crown to tip the chambermaid of the room his wife left her wraps in, and for the cloakroom. He said he only wanted it for five minutes, as she had his purse. So of course I lent it to him. And he’s forgotten to pay me. I’ve just tuppence to get back with.

Ridgeon. Oh, never mind that —

Blenkinsop [stopping him resolutely] No: I know what youre going to say; but I wont take it. Ive never borrowed a penny; and I never will. Ive nothing left but my friends; and I wont sell them. If none of you were to be able to meet me without being afraid that my civility was leading up to the loan of five shillings, there would be an end of everything for me. I’ll take your old clothes, Colly, sooner than disgrace you by talking to you in the street in my own; but I wont borrow money. I’ll train it as far as the twopence will take me; and I’ll tramp the rest.

Walpole. Youll do the whole distance in my motor. [They are all greatly relieved; and Walpole hastens to get away from the painful subject by adding] Did he get anything out of you, Mr Schutzmacher?

Schutzmacher [shakes his head in a most expressive negative].

Walpole. You didnt appreciate his drawing, I think.

Schutzmacher. Oh yes I did. I should have liked very much to have kept the sketch and got it autographed.

B. B. But why didnt you?

Schutzmacher. Well, the fact is, when I joined Dubedat after his conversation with Mr Walpole, he said the Jews were the only people who knew anything about art, and that though he had to put up with your Philistine twaddle, as he called it, it was what I said about the drawings that really pleased him. He also said that his wife was greatly struck with my knowledge, and that she always admired Jews. Then he asked me to advance him 50 pounds on the security of the drawings.

B. B. { [All exclaiming together] } No, no. Positively! Seriously!
Walpole { } What! Another fifty!
Blenkinsop { } Think of that!
Sir Patrick { } [grunts]!

Schutzmacher. Of course I couldnt lend money to a stranger like that.

B. B. I envy you the power to say No, Mr Schutzmacher. Of course, I knew I oughtnt to lend money to a young fellow in that way; but I simply hadnt the nerve to refuse. I couldnt very well, you know, could I?

Schutzmacher. I dont understand that. I felt that I couldnt very well lend it.

Walpole. What did he say?

Schutzmacher. Well, he made a very uncalled-for remark about a Jew not understanding the feelings of a gentleman. I must say you Gentiles are very hard to please. You say we are no gentlemen when we lend money; and when we refuse to lend it you say just the same. I didnt mean to behave badly. As I told him, I might have lent it to him if he had been a Jew himself.

Sir Patrick [with a grunt] And what did he say to that?

Schutzmacher. Oh, he began trying to persuade me that he was one of the chosen people — that his artistic faculty shewed it, and that his name was as foreign as my own. He said he didnt really want 50 pounds; that he was only joking; that all he wanted was a couple of sovereigns.

B. B. No, no, Mr Schutzmacher. You invented that last touch. Seriously, now?

Schutzmacher. No. You cant improve on Nature in telling stories about gentlemen like Mr Dubedat.

Blenkinsop. You certainly do stand by one another, you chosen people, Mr Schutzmacher.

Schutzmacher. Not at all. Personally, I like Englishmen better than Jews, and always associate with them. Thats only natural, because, as I am a Jew, theres nothing interesting in a Jew to me, whereas there is always something interesting and foreign in an Englishman. But in money matters it’s quite different. You see, when an Englishman borrows, all he knows or cares is that he wants money; and he’ll sign anything to get it, without in the least understanding it, or intending to carry out the agreement if it turns out badly for him. In fact, he thinks you a cad if you ask him to carry it out under such circumstances. Just like the Merchant of Venice, you know. But if a Jew makes an agreement, he means to keep it and expects you to keep it. If he wants money for a time, he borrows it and knows he must pay it at the end of the time. If he knows he cant pay, he begs it as a gift.

Ridgeon. Come, Loony! do you mean to say that Jews are never rogues and thieves?

Schutzmacher. Oh, not at all. But I was not talking of criminals. I was comparing honest Englishmen with honest Jews.

One of the hotel maids, a pretty, fair-haired woman of about 25, comes from the hotel, rather furtively. She accosts Ridgeon.

The Maid. I beg your pardon, sir —

Ridgeon. Eh?

The Maid. I beg pardon, sir. It’s not about the hotel. I’m not allowed to be on the terrace; and I should be discharged if I were seen speaking to you, unless you were kind enough to say you called me to ask whether the motor has come back from the station yet.

Walpole. Has it?

The Maid. Yes, sir.

Ridgeon. Well, what do you want?

The Maid. Would you mind, sir, giving me the address of the gentleman that was with you at dinner?

Ridgeon [sharply] Yes, of course I should mind very much. You have no right to ask.

The Maid. Yes, sir, I know it looks like that. But what am I to do?

Sir Patrick. Whats the matter with you?

The Maid. Nothing, sir. I want the address: thats all.

B. B. You mean the young gentleman?

The Maid. Yes, sir: that went to catch the train with the woman he brought with him.

Ridgeon. The woman! Do you mean the lady who dined here? the gentleman’s wife?

The Maid. Dont believe them, sir. She cant be his wife. I’m his wife.

B. B. { [in amazed remonstrance] My good girl!
Ridgeon { You his wife!
Walpole { What! whats that? Oh, this is getting perfectly fascinating, Ridgeon.

The Maid. I could run upstairs and get you my marriage lines in a minute, sir, if you doubt my word. He’s Mr Louis Dubedat, isnt he?

Ridgeon. Yes.

The Maid. Well, sir, you may believe me or not; but I’m the lawful Mrs Dubedat.

Sir Patrick. And why arnt you living with your husband?

The Maid. We couldnt afford it, sir. I had thirty pounds saved; and we spent it all on our honeymoon in three weeks, and a lot more that he borrowed. Then I had to go back into service, and he went to London to get work at his drawing; and he never wrote me a line or sent me an address. I never saw nor heard of him again until I caught sight of him from the window going off in the motor with that woman.

Sir Patrick. Well, thats two wives to start with.

B. B. Now upon my soul I dont want to be uncharitable; but really I’m beginning to suspect that our young friend is rather careless.

Sir Patrick. Beginning to think! How long will it take you, man, to find out that he’s a damned young blackguard?

Blenkinsop. Oh, thats severe, Sir Patrick, very severe. Of course it’s bigamy; but still he’s very young; and she’s very pretty. Mr Walpole: may I spunge on you for another of those nice cigarets of yours? [He changes his seat for the one next Walpole].

Walpole. Certainly. [He feels in his pockets]. Oh bother! Where —? [Suddenly remembering] I say: I recollect now: I passed my cigaret case to Dubedat and he didnt return it. It was a gold one.

The Maid. He didnt mean any harm: he never thinks about things like that, sir. I’ll get it back for you, sir, if youll tell me where to find him.

Ridgeon. What am I to do? Shall I give her the address or not?

Sir Patrick. Give her your own address; and then we’ll see. [To the maid] Youll have to be content with that for the present, my girl. [Ridgeon gives her his card]. Whats your name?

The Maid. Minnie Tinwell, sir.

Sir Patrick. Well, you write him a letter to care of this gentleman; and it will be sent on. Now be off with you.

The Maid. Thank you, sir. I’m sure you wouldnt see me wronged. Thank you all, gentlemen; and excuse the liberty.

She goes into the hotel. They match her in silence.

Ridgeon [when she is gone] Do you realize, chaps, that we have promised Mrs Dubedat to save this fellow’s life?

Blenkinsop. Whats the matter with him?

Ridgeon. Tuberculosis.

Blenkinsop [interested] And can you cure that?

Ridgeon. I believe so.

Blenkinsop. Then I wish youd cure me. My right lung is touched, I’m sorry to say.

Ridgeon } { What! Your lung is going?
B.B } { My dear Blenkinsop, what do you tell me? [full of concern for Blenkinsop he comes back from the balustrade].
} [all together] {
Sir Patrick } { Eh? Eh? Whats that?
Walpole } { Hullo, you mustn’t neglect this, you know.

Blenkinsop [putting his fingers in his ears] No, no: it’s no use. I know what youre going to say: Ive said it often to others. I cant afford to take care of myself; and theres an end of it. If a fortnight’s holiday would save my life, I’d have to die. I shall get on as others have to get on. We cant all go to St Moritz or to Egypt, you know, Sir Ralph. Dont talk about it.

Embarrassed silence.

Sir Patrick [grunts and looks hard at Ridgeon]!

Schutzmacher [looking at his watch and rising] I must go. It’s been a very pleasant evening, Colly. You might let me have my portrait if you dont mind. I’ll send Mr Dubedat that couple of sovereigns for it.

Ridgeon [giving him the menu card] Oh dont do that, Loony. I dont think he’d like that.

Schutzmacher. Well, of course I shant if you feel that way about it. But I dont think you understand Dubedat. However, perhaps thats because I’m a Jew. Good-night, Dr Blenkinsop [shaking hands].

Blenkinsop. Good-night, sir — I mean — Good-night.

Schutzmacher [waving his hand to the rest] Goodnight, everybody.

Walpole { Good-night.
B. B. {
Sir Patrick {
Ridgeon {

B. B. repeats the salutation several times, in varied musical tones. Schutzmacher goes out.

Sir Patrick. Its time for us all to move. [He rises and comes between Blenkinsop and Walpole. Ridgeon also rises]. Mr Walpole: take Blenkinsop home: he’s had enough of the open air cure for to-night. Have you a thick overcoat to wear in the motor, Dr Blenkinsop?

Blenkinsop. Oh, theyll give me some brown paper in the hotel; and a few thicknesses of brown paper across the chest are better than any fur coat.

Walpole. Well, come along. Good-night, Colly. Youre coming with us, arnt you, B. B.?

B. B. Yes: I’m coming. [Walpole and Blenkinsop go into the hotel]. Good-night, my dear Ridgeon [shaking hands affectionately]. Dont let us lose sight of your interesting patient and his very charming wife. We must not judge him too hastily, you know. [With unction] G o o o o o o o o d-night, Paddy. Bless you, dear old chap. [Sir Patrick utters a formidable grunt. B. B. laughs and pats him indulgently on the shoulder] Good-night. Good-night. Good-night. Good-night. [He good-nights himself into the hotel].

The others have meanwhile gone without ceremony. Ridgeon and Sir Patrick are left alone together. Ridgeon, deep in thought, comes down to Sir Patrick.

Sir Patrick. Well, Mr Savior of Lives: which is it to be? that honest decent man Blenkinsop, or that rotten blackguard of an artist, eh?

Ridgeon. Its not an easy case to judge, is it? Blenkinsop’s an honest decent man; but is he any use? Dubedat’s a rotten blackguard; but he’s a genuine source of pretty and pleasant and good things.

Sir Patrick. What will he be a source of for that poor innocent wife of his, when she finds him out?

Ridgeon. Thats true. Her life will be a hell.

Sir Patrick. And tell me this. Suppose you had this choice put before you: either to go through life and find all the pictures bad but all the men and women good, or to go through life and find all the pictures good and all the men and women rotten. Which would you choose?

Ridgeon. Thats a devilishly difficult question, Paddy. The pictures are so agreeable, and the good people so infernally disagreeable and mischievous, that I really cant undertake to say offhand which I should prefer to do without.

Sir Patrick. Come come! none of your cleverness with me: I’m too old for it. Blenkinsop isnt that sort of good man; and you know it.

Ridgeon. It would be simpler if Blenkinsop could paint Dubedat’s pictures.

Sir Patrick. It would be simpler still if Dubedat had some of Blenkinsop’s honesty. The world isnt going to be made simple for you, my lad: you must take it as it is. Youve to hold the scales between Blenkinsop and Dubedat. Hold them fairly.

Ridgeon. Well, I’ll be as fair as I can. I’ll put into one scale all the pounds Dubedat has borrowed, and into the other all the half-crowns that Blenkinsop hasnt borrowed.

Sir Patrick. And youll take out of Dubedat’s scale all the faith he has destroyed and the honor he has lost, and youll put into Blenkinsop’s scale all the faith he has justified and the honor he has created.

Ridgeon. Come come, Paddy! none of your claptrap with me: I’m too sceptical for it. I’m not at all convinced that the world wouldnt be a better world if everybody behaved as Dubedat does than it is now that everybody behaves as Blenkinsop does.

Sir Patrick. Then why dont you behave as Dubedat does?

Ridgeon. Ah, that beats me. Thats the experimental test. Still, it’s a dilemma. It’s a dilemma. You see theres a complication we havnt mentioned.

Sir Patrick. Whats that?

Ridgeon. Well, if I let Blenkinsop die, at least nobody can say I did it because I wanted to marry his widow.

Sir Patrick. Eh? Whats that?

Ridgeon. Now if I let Dubedat die, I’ll marry his widow.

Sir Patrick. Perhaps she wont have you, you know.

Ridgeon [with a self-assured shake of the head] I’ve a pretty good flair for that sort of thing. I know when a woman is interested in me. She is.

Sir Patrick. Well, sometimes a man knows best; and sometimes he knows worst. Youd much better cure them both.

Ridgeon. I cant. I’m at my limit. I can squeeze in one more case, but not two. I must choose.

Sir Patrick. Well, you must choose as if she didnt exist: thats clear.

Ridgeon. Is that clear to you? Mind: it’s not clear to me. She troubles my judgment.

Sir Patrick. To me, it’s a plain choice between a man and a lot of pictures.

Ridgeon. It’s easier to replace a dead man than a good picture.

Sir Patrick. Colly: when you live in an age that runs to pictures and statues and plays and brass bands because its men and women are not good enough to comfort its poor aching soul, you should thank Providence that you belong to a profession which is a high and great profession because its business is to heal and mend men and women.

Ridgeon. In short, as a member of a high and great profession, I’m to kill my patient.

Sir Patrick. Dont talk wicked nonsense. You cant kill him. But you can leave him in other hands.

Ridgeon. In B. B.‘s, for instance: eh? [looking at him significantly].

Sir Patrick [demurely facing his look] Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington is a very eminent physician.

Ridgeon. He is.

Sir Patrick. I’m going for my hat.

Ridgeon strikes the bell as Sir Patrick makes for the hotel. A waiter comes.

Ridgeon [to the waiter] My bill, please.

Waiter. Yes, sir.

He goes for it.

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Last updated Wednesday, March 5, 2014 at 22:30