Tim. What about?
Juan. That we are getting old.
Tim. How have you got to know?
Juan. I’ll tell you: there are symptoms. When the weather changes all my joints are sore. When I wish to stretch out this leg merrily, it entails labour on me, and in the end it is the other leg which moves. Moreover my sight is failing: when I see a dark girl in the street, she looks fair to me; and if a girl happens to be fair, she becomes so obscured as to turn dark before my eyes.
Nem. That’s weakness; you should take a tonic. (Drinks.)
Juan. My stomach cannot endure alcohol now: I drink out of compliment; but I know that it does me harm.
Tim. Because it is not the alcohol of our time.
Nem. This is corrosive sublimate alcoholised.
Tim. It is the alcohol which has grown old. (Walks about jauntily.) I feel young still—Ah!
Juan. What’s the matter?