Sir P. (L.) Only dyspepsia, madam! What’s the word suffering from?—vice—crime—drink—poverty? What are they all? Indigestion.
Phil. My wife means, nothing dangerous—one can hardly die of dyspepsia.
Sir P. Sir, one can die of anything. If you only knew the number of things one can die of, you’d wonder any of us are alive. (Philip laughs and lifts his cup to drink) What have you there? (going up to back of table)
Phil. Only some coffee.
Sir P. Put it down, sir, instantly. (hand on table)
Bea. Mayn’t he have coffee, doctor?
Sir P. (crosses behind sofa to C.) Coffee! Most indigestible! Have I not given my orders? He is to taste nothing more to-day, except one dose of medicine before going to bed. (Beatrice goes to piano, puts her cup down and picks up her fan)
Phil. Another dose, to-night?
Sir P. One more; it’s most important. (rises)
Bea. Is Mr. Merivale still here? (at piano)