Jack. No good at all.
Walter. Well, suppose that—no, that’s no use—suppose again that—no, that’s no good either. I have a dim kind of idea that in some way my invention is going to help us.
Jack. You said it had failed.
Walter. It failed living; it might be of use dead. (Swiss Jodel.) Hullo, tra la la! (Momentary dissipated business.)
(Stella enters D. in F.)
Walter. Hullo, Stella how are you? Jack has told me all about this adventurer, Potterfield. I’ve an idea to checkmate my stepmother. (Gives her seat.) I’m going to postpone their marriage not by being ill—I’m going to die. What do you think of that?
Jack. I think it’s the weakest thing I ever heard of.
Walter. In that cupboard there is a figure exactly like myself which was timed to spring into existence yesterday at 5 p.m.—only it didn’t. It’s the work my father never completed. Something went wrong. There the figure is and will remain, dead as a nut. I even dressed it in my best clothes, gave it a name, too, christened it Cyril Davidson.
Stella. Cyril Davidson? (Laughs.)
Jack. What was the little idea of making it like yourself?