RIDGEON. Yach! Thats what makes the medical student the most
disgusting figure in modern civilization. No veneration, no
manners--no--

EMMY [at the door, announcing]. Sir Patrick Cullen. [She
retires].

Sir Patrick Cullen is more than twenty years older than Ridgeon,
not yet quite at the end of his tether, but near it and resigned
to it. His name, his plain, downright, sometimes rather arid
common sense, his large build and stature, the absence of those
odd moments of ceremonial servility by which an old English
doctor sometimes shews you what the status of the profession was
in England in his youth, and an occasional turn of speech, are
Irish; but he has lived all his life in England and is thoroughly
acclimatized. His manner to Ridgeon, whom he likes, is whimsical
and fatherly: to others he is a little gruff and uninviting, apt
to substitute more or less expressive grunts for articulate
speech, and generally indisposed, at his age, to make much social
effort. He shakes Ridgeon's hand and beams at him cordially and
jocularly.

SIR PATRICK. Well, young chap. Is your hat too small for you, eh?

RIDGEON. Much too small. I owe it all to you.

SIR PATRICK. Blarney, my boy. Thank you all the same. [He sits in
one of the arm-chairs near the fireplace. Ridgeon sits on the
couch]. Ive come to talk to you a bit. [To Redpenny] Young man: