CRAVEN. Where's Paramore?


CUTHBERTSON. Reading his paper, I asked him wasn't he coming; but he
didn't hear me. It's amazing how anything scientific absorbs him.
Clever man! Monstrously clever man!

CRAVEN (pettishly). Oh yes, that's all very well, Jo; but it's not
good manners at table: he should shut up the shop sometimes. Heaven
knows I am only too anxious to forget his science, since it has
pronounced my doom. (He sits down with a melancholy air.)

CUTHBERTSON (compassionately). You mustn't think about that, Craven:
perhaps he was mistaken. (He sighs deeply and sits down.) But he is
certainly a very clever fellow. He thinks twice before he commits
himself. (They sit in silence, full of the gloomiest thoughts.
Suddenly Paramore enters, pale and in the utmost disorder, with the
British Medical Journal in his clenched hand. They rise in alarm. He
tries to speak, but chokes, clutches at his throat, and staggers.
Cuthbertson quickly takes his chair and places it behind Paramore, who
sinks into it as they crowd about him, Craven at his right shoulder,
Cuthbertson on his left, and Julia behind Craven.)

CRAVEN. What's the matter, Paramore?

JULIA. Are you ill?

CUTHBERTSON. No bad news, I hope?

PARAMORE (despairingly). The worst of news! Terrible news! Fatal news!