PARAMORE. But how?

CHARTERIS. I'll tell you. You think I'm fond of Julia myself. So I am;
but then I'm fond of everybody; so I don't count. Besides, if you try
the scientific experiment of asking her whether she loves me, she'll
tell you that she hates and despises me. So I'm out of the running.
Nevertheless, like you, I hope that she may be happy with all my--what
did you call your soul?

PARAMORE (impatiently). Oh, go on, go on: finish what you were going
to say.

CHARTERIS (suddenly affecting complete indifference, and rising
carelessly). I don't know that I have anything more to say. If I were
you I should invite the Cravens to tea in honor of the Colonel's
escape from a horrible doom. By the way, if you've done with that
British Medical Journal, I should like to see how they've smashed your
theory up.

PARAMORE (wincing as he also rises). Oh, certainly, if you wish it. I
have no objection. (He takes the Journal from the bookstand.) I admit
that the Italian experiments apparently upset my theory. But please
remember that it is doubtful--extremely doubtful--whether anything can
be proved by experiments on animals. (He hands Charteris the Journal.)

CHARTERIS (taking it). It doesn't matter: I don't intend to make any.
(He retires to the recess on Ibsen's right, picking up the step ladder
as he passes and placing it so that he is able to use it for a leg
rest as he settles himself to read on the divan with his back to the