Phil. Beatrice! Quick! (Tom has her L. hand, Philip her right; they force her to the door between them; as Beatrice exits she looks back at glass on table)
Bea. In a moment! (glancing at glass)
Tom. Come along!
Phil. Beatrice! do come! (exeunt R. upper door. The door shuts with a bang. Music in orchestra)
Sir Peter appears in the conservatory, and enters from R.
Sir P. Nobody here. Perhaps he’s lying down. (taps at door, L.) Nobody there. They’ve gone downstairs. (comes down to C. passing behind sofa) He must be better, then. (music stops, pause, lost in thought) Peter, my boy, if anyone had told you, you could study a case as you have studied this, for a week, and not be able to make head or tail of it, you would have kicked—pulled his nose for him. (goes to R. of table.) What is the matter with this man? Of course it might be—but that’s out of the question. (sits on sofa) Ah, there’s his medicine. What did he say? He always felt worse after taking it. I don’t know why he should. Only a tonic, with a nasty flavour. People like nasty medicine. Think it does ’em good. (rises, tastes it) Well—it is nasty. (starts slightly as he tastes it on his tongue—lifts glass to light, examines it, then smells it, smells it again, tastes again cautiously by his finger, sets the glass down, and stands looking at it) Nothing’s out of the question! I ought to have known it. (pours dose into the goblet, smells and tastes the bottle) That’s all right. (music in orchestra. Pours out another dose into the glass, which he replaces exactly where he found it, recorks the bottle and exit slowly with goblet through conservatory, R., pausing in C. a moment to examine medicine.)
Re-enter Beatrice, R., quickly, sees the medicine, stops short and resumes her wonted manner; down C. Re-enter Philip, R.; music stops.
Phil. She’s better now; but I was rather alarmed. (down to C.)
Bea. Poor child! (goes to fire L.)
Phil. She’ll soon get over it. Only a girlish fancy. Where did I put that medicine? (looking about)