CRAVEN (offended). You must excuse me, Paramore, if I say that I no
longer feel any confidence in your opinion as a medical man.
(Paramore's eye flashes: he straightens himself and listens.) I paid
you a pretty stiff fee for that consultation when you condemned me;
and I can't say I think you gave me value for it.

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.)