Pascoe. (Reading thermometer.) Temperature 104-1/2. Pulse is 140—and weak. I must have some boiling water.
Carve. (At a loss.) What for?
Pascoe. What for? For a poultice.
Carve. (Helplessly.) But there isn't any ... we've nothing except this spirit-lamp. (Pointing to lamp on table.)
Pascoe. No women in the house?
Carve. (With humour that the doctor declines to see.) Not one.
Pascoe. (Controlling his exasperation.) Never mind. I'll run round to the surgery and get my hypodermic. (To Shawn, reassuringly and deferentially.) I shall be back at once, Mr. Carve. (To Carve, near door.) Keep your master well covered up—I suppose you can do that?
(Exit.)
Carve. Shawn, my poor fellow, he takes you for the illustrious Ilam Carve. This is what comes of me rushing out in shirt sleeves. (Gesture of despair.) I can't explain it to him.
Shawn. But——