Doctor. (swinging round on revolving chair facing Tupper, who has backed to bureau alarmed) Don't talk, I'm busy! (opening his letters—aside) Can that boy have guessed? No, how could he? (picks up Cummerbund's letter)
Tupper. (aside) 'E's got the letter! (closes drawer)
Doctor. (throwing down letters savagely) Bills, bills, bills—nothing but bills! (walks up and down shying things about)
Tupper. (aside, stealing out on tiptoe) It's my last day out o' bed, I know it is.
(Exit Tupper.)
Doctor. (takes card out of mirror) "Sir Peter and Lady Quayle request the pleasure——" That's what did it, that dinner of Quayle's. Sir Peter told me over dessert, that for the first six months after he started in practice, he was starving. Then he met a young governess who was starving too, and with what their friends called "sublime imprudence" they got married. And he never looked behind him after. Then he said if I meant to get on as a gynaecologist, I must get married. "Your wife will prove a mascotte like mine did," he said, "and patients will flow in—simply flow in." Well, I believe in Quayle. That was Tuesday night; on Wednesday I ran down to Lowesloft, proposed to Flo on Thursday, we were secretly married this morning at the Registry Office, she's gone back to her people, and I've come back to town; and what do I find? Nothing but bills, and I can't pay one of them. After settling for the special license, my fare back to town, and that telegram to Aurora. (feels in pocket, produces coppers) I've got sevenpence half-penny in the wide world and a wife! It's all Quayle's fault! Damn Quayle! I'll never believe in him again. I don't even know where my next meal is coming from, (walks up and down)
(Enter Aurora with the tea—goes to small tea-table.)
Aurora. 'Ere's yer tea, sir. I was glad to get your telegram. Mrs. O'Hara was getting quite anxious about you.
Doctor. (aside) About her rent, more likely.
Aurora. She wondered where you'd got to, but I knew, sir. 'Ow is the pore lady? Do you think she'll get over it, Doctor?