BEA. Ah, here is Philip! (_goes to him, affectionately_)
PHIL. Good morning, doctor. (_coming down with his arm round BEATRICE_) Morning, Normantower. (_goes to sofa and sits. BEATRICE goes to back of table L.C. and sits_)
NOR. Sorry to hear you"re not so well this morning. (_comes down R.
and sits at piano, facing PHILIP_)
PHIL. I ought to get better, if the best of doctors and the most devoted of nurses are of any use; but somehow I don"t.
SIR P. You get worse. (_R. of sofa_)
PHIL. I shouldn"t mind so much, if I didn"t find my temper giving way--just now, I spoke quite crossly to poor little Mousey here (_takes her hand_)--and she was only carrying out your instructions.
(_to SIR PETER_)
BEA. The fact is, doctor, he"s a very naughty boy, and won"t take his medicine, though I always give it him with my own hands. He hasn"t taken any to-day.
SIR P. Oh, you won"t take your medicine?
PHIL. It"s such horrid stuff; and somehow, I always feel worse after taking it.
SIR P. So much the better. Shows it"s doing you good.
NOR. (_smiling_) That"s all my eye, doctor. (_BEATRICE rises and goes towards R.U.D._)
SIR P. No, sir, it"s all his liver. Oblige me by not interrupting.
BEA. (_up R.C._) Come, Lord Normantower. (_NORMANTOWER rises, turns up and opens R.U.D. for BEATRICE, who crosses in front of him. PHILIP rises and goes to L._) Sir Peter would like to be alone with Philip.
(_exit BEATRICE R.U.D._)
NOR. (_following--aside_) And I"d like to be alone with Miss Derwent.
(_exit NORMANTOWER_)
PHIL. Now I am at your service. (_arranges easy chair and sits_)
SIR P. (_goes to R. of table, L.C._) Have you made your will?
PHIL. (_starts_) Well, you"re a lively doctor!
SIR P. Have you made your will? (_with emphasis_)
PHIL. Am I so ill as that? (_aghast_)
SIR P. Yes, sir--you are.
PHIL. But if it"s only my liver.
SIR P. It is _not_ your liver.
PHIL. Is it my heart? Is anything wrong there?
SIR P. Nothing of any consequence. It"s rather too large, and rather too soft--that"s all that"s wrong with your heart.
PHIL. What is it then?
SIR P. (_sits on sofa_) I can account for your condition, only on one hypothesis, and that one is out of the question.
PHIL. Mayn"t I know what it is?
SIR P. Since it"s out of the question, it"s no use discussing it. You haven"t answered me. Have you made your will?
PHIL. Yes--long ago. It was a very simple matter. Mildred is provided for; so I have left everything to my wife, absolutely. (_SIR PETER rises and rings the bell, below fire, crossing in front_)
PHIL. Do you want anything?
SIR P. Yes. The name and address of your solicitor.
PHIL. Old Merivale, of High Street! why? (_enter JOHNSON, R.U.D., she comes on to R.C._)
SIR P. (_crosses to C._) Mr. Selwyn"s compliments to Mr. Merivale, Solicitor, High Street, and will he kindly come here at once? (_exit JOHNSON R.U.D. SIR PETER returns to R. of table_)
PHIL. What for?
SIR P. To draw your will.
PHIL. But I tell you, I"ve made it.
SIR P. You must make another. (_sits, produces doc.u.ments, and puts on pince-nez_)
PHIL. Sir Peter, you are incomprehensible!
SIR P. Let me make myself clear. Your father, Philip Selwyn, was married to your mother, Mildred Kent, in July, 1865. I need not show you the certificate.
PHIL. Of course not.
SIR P. Two years before, in March, 1863, one Philip Derwent was married to one Kate Graham.
PHIL. Derwent? Kate? Miss Derwent"s father, I presume?
SIR P. Yes. There is the certificate.
PHIL. I don"t want to see it.
SIR P. But I want you to see it. (_gives it to PHILIP_)
PHIL. (_glances at it and returns it_) How does it concern me?
SIR P. It concerns _her_, doesn"t it?
PHIL. Of course.