RIDGEON. You old cynic, you dont believe a bit in my discovery.

SIR PATRICK. No, no: I dont go quite so far as that, Colly. But
still, you remember Jane Marsh?

RIDGEON. Jane Marsh? No.

SIR PATRICK. You dont!

RIDGEON. No.

SIR PATRICK. You mean to tell me you dont remember the woman with
the tuberculosis ulcer on her arm?

RIDGEON [enlightened] Oh, your washerwoman's daughter. Was her
name Jane Marsh? I forgot.

SIR PATRICK. Perhaps youve forgotten also that you undertook to
cure her with Koch's tuberculin.

RIDGEON. And instead of curing her, it rotted her arm right off.
Yes: I remember. Poor Jane! However, she makes a good living out
of that arm now by shewing it at medical lectures.

SIR PATRICK. Still, that wasnt quite what you intended, was it?

RIDGEON. I took my chance of it.

SIR PATRICK. Jane did, you mean.