JULIA. That's all he ever takes, Mr. Cuthbertson, I assure you. He hates to be bothered about it. 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! My disease-- CRAVEN (quickly). Do you mean my disease? PARAMORE (fiercely). I mean my disease--Paramore's disease--the disease I discovered--the work of my life. Look here (pointing to the B. M. J. with a ghastly expression of horror.) If this is true, it was all a mistake: there is no such disease. (Cuthbertson and Julia look at one another, hardly daring to believe the good news.) CRAVEN (in strong remonstrance). And you call this bad news! Now really, Paramore--