A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep; or taste not the Pierian spring.
I mean no disrespect to your generation, Sir Patrick: some of you old stagers did marvels through sheer professional intuition and clinical experience; but when I think of the average men of your day, ignorantly bleeding and cupping and purging, and scattering germs over their patients from their clothes and instruments, and contrast all that with the scientific certainty and simplicity of my treatment of the little prince the other day, I cant help being proud of my own generation: the men who were trained on the germ theory, the veterans of the great struggle over Evolution in the seventies. We may have our faults; but at least we are men of science. That is why I am taking up your treatment, Ridgeon, and pushing it. It’s scientific. [He sits down on the chair near the couch].
EMMY [at the door, announcing] Dr Blenkinsop.
Dr Blenkinsop is a very different case from the others. He is clearly not a prosperous man. He is flabby and shabby, cheaply fed and cheaply clothed. He has the lines made by a conscience between his eyes, and the lines made by continual money worries all over his face, cut all the deeper as he has seen better days, and hails his well-to-do colleagues as their contemporary and old hospital friend, though even in this he has to struggle with the diffidence of poverty and relegation to the poorer middle class.
RIDGEON. How are you, Blenkinsop?
BLENKINSOP. Ive come to offer my humble congratulations. Oh dear! all the great guns are before me.
B. B. [patronizing, but charming] How d’ye do Blenkinsop? How d’ye do?
BLENKINSOP. And Sir Patrick, too [Sir Patrick grunts].
RIDGEON. Youve met Walpole, of course?