BLENKINSOP. I must be off, too: every half-hour I spend away from my work costs me eighteenpence. Good-bye, Sir Patrick.
SIR PATRICK. Good-bye. Good-bye.
RIDGEON. Come to lunch with me some day this week.
BLENKINSOP. I cant afford it, dear boy; and it would put me off my own food for a week. Thank you all the same.
RIDGEON [uneasy at Blenkinsop’s poverty] Can I do nothing for you?
BLENKINSOP. Well, if you have an old frock-coat to spare? you see what would be an old one for you would be a new one for me; so remember the next time you turn out your wardrobe. Good-bye. [He hurries out].
RIDGEON [looking after him] Poor chap! [Turning to Sir Patrick] So thats why they made me a knight! And thats the medical profession!
SIR PATRICK. And a very good profession, too, my lad. When you know as much as I know of the ignorance and superstition of the patients, youll wonder that we’re half as good as we are.
RIDGEON. We’re not a profession: we’re a conspiracy.
SIR PATRICK. All professions are conspiracies against the laity. And we cant all be geniuses like you. Every fool can get ill; but every fool cant be a good doctor: there are not enough good ones to go round. And for all you know, Bloomfield Bonington kills less people than you do.