‘Shall I never have a good laugh before I die?’
‘Who knows? Something may turn up.... But why do you cough like that? Are you ill?’
‘No. I often cough like that.’
‘It would spoil everything if you were ill.’
With a little gesture Lady Wyse summoned the watchful Parchmin, and bade him bring his fellow-savants.
‘What’s the matter with Prince Dwala?’ she asked. ‘He coughs in a funny way. Examine him.’
The command covered the whole trio. The Philosopher assumed a frivolous look. The Eminent Scientist disclaimed competence: he was Chemistry or something.
‘Nonsense!’ said Lady Wyse. ‘What’s the good of being a scientist?’
Dwala towered serenely while the Biologist and the Eminent Scientist—having exchanged grimaces of apology—walked round and round him, with their ears to his sides, one behind the other, as if it were a game, with an occasional murmur from the Biologist of ‘Cough again’—‘Say ninety-nine.’
The little bald Philosopher stood opposite, with his eyebrows raised and his hands behind his back, tipping himself patiently up and down on his toes, like a half-witted child. The Biologist, meeting the Eminent Scientist accidentally at a corner, made a parenthesis of his mouth and shook his head. Coming to the perpendicular soon, he recommended care and a healthy life.