SYLVIA. She can't take things easy, can she, old man? But don't you be afraid of breaking her heart: she gets over her little tragedies. We found that out at home when our great sorrow came. CHARTERIS. What was that? SYLVIA. I mean when we learned that poor papa had Paramore's disease. But it was too late to inoculate papa. All they could do was to prolong his life for two years more by putting him on a strict diet. Poor old boy! they cut off his liquor; and he's not allowed to eat meat. CHARTERIS. Your father appears to me to be uncommonly well. SYLVIA. Yes, you would think he was a great deal better. But the microbes are at work, slowly but surely. In another year it will be all over. Poor old Dad! it's unfeeling to talk about him in this attitude: I must sit down properly. (She comes down from the settee and takes the chair near the bookstand.) I should like papa to live for ever just to take the conceit out of Paramore. I believe he's in love with Julia. CHARTERIS (starting up excitedly). In love with Julia! A ray of hope on the horizon! Do you really mean it? SYLVIA. I should think I do. Why do you suppose he's hanging about the club to-day in a beautiful new coat and tie instead of attending to his patients? That lunch with Julia will finish him. He'll ask Daddy's consent before they come back--I'll bet you three to one he will, in anything you please. CHARTERIS. Gloves? SYLVIA. No: cigarettes. CHARTERIS. Done! But what does she think about it? Does she give him any encouragement? SYLVIA. Oh, the usual thing. Enough to keep any other woman from getting him. CHARTERIS. Just so. I understand. Now listen to me: I am going to speak as a philosopher. Julia is jealous of everybody--everybody. If she saw you flirting with Paramore she'd begin to value him directly. You might play up a little, Craven, for my sake--eh? SYLVIA (rising). You're too awful, Leonard. For shame? However, anything to oblige a fellow Ibsenite. I'll bear your affair in mind. But I think it would be more effective if you got Grace to do it. CHARTERIS. Think so? Hm! perhaps you're right. PAGE BOY (outside as before). Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore-- SYLVIA. They ought to get that boy's voice properly cultivated: it's a disgrace to the club. (She goes into the recess on Ibsen's left. The page enters carrying the British Medical Journal.) CHARTERIS (calling to the page). Dr. Paramore is in the dining room. PAGE BOY. Thank you, sir. (He is about to go into the dining room when Sylvia swoops on him.) SYLVIA. Here: where are you taking that paper? It belongs to this room. PAGE BOY. It's Dr. Paramore's particular orders, miss. The British Medical Journal has always to be brought to him dreckly it comes. SYLVIA. What cheek? Charteris: oughtn't we to stop this on principle? CHARTERIS. Certainly not. Principle's the poorest reason I know for making yourself nasty. SYLVIA. Bosh! Ibsen!