SIR PATRICK. Well, sometimes a man knows best; and sometimes he knows worst. Youd much better cure them both.
RIDGEON. I cant. I’m at my limit. I can squeeze in one more case, but not two. I must choose.
SIR PATRICK. Well, you must choose as if she didnt exist: thats clear.
RIDGEON. Is that clear to you? Mind: it’s not clear to me. She troubles my judgment.
SIR PATRICK. To me, it’s a plain choice between a man and a lot of pictures.
RIDGEON. It’s easier to replace a dead man than a good picture.
SIR PATRICK. Colly: when you live in an age that runs to pictures and statues and plays and brass bands because its men and women are not good enough to comfort its poor aching soul, you should thank Providence that you belong to a profession which is a high and great profession because its business is to heal and mend men and women.
RIDGEON. In short, as a member of a high and great profession, I’m to kill my patient.
SIR PATRICK. Dont talk wicked nonsense. You cant kill him. But you can leave him in other hands.
RIDGEON. In B. B.’s, for instance: eh? [looking at him significantly].