Hilda (reflects in vain). How can you sit there and ask such questions? I suppose I am a symbol, of some sort.
Dr. Herd. (as a thought flashes upon him). A cymbal? That would certainly account for your bra—— Then am I a cymbal too, Hilda?
Hilda. Why yes—what else? You represent the Artist-worker, or the Elder Generation, or the Pursuit of the Ideal, or a Bilious Conscience—or something or other. You're all right!
Dr. Herd. (shakes his head). Am I? But I don't quite see—— Well, well, cymbals are meant to clash a little. And I see plainly now that I ought to prescribe this powder for as many as possible. Isn't it terrible, Hilda, that so many poor souls never really die their own deaths—pass out of the world without even the formality of an inquest? As the district Coroner, I feel strongly on the subject.
Hilda. And, when the Coroner has finished sitting on all the bodies, perhaps—but I shan't tell you now. (Speaks as if to a child.) There, run away and finish making the Rainbow-powder, do!
Dr. Herd. (skips up into the Dispensary). I will—I will! Oh, I do feel such a troll—such a light-haired, light-headed old devil!
Rübub (enters garden-gate). I have had my dismissal—but I'm not going without saying good-bye to Mrs. Herdal.
Hilda. Dr. Herdal would disapprove—you really must not, Mr. Kalomel. And, besides, Mrs. Herdal is not at home. She is in the town buying me a reel of cotton. Dr. Herdal is in. He is making real Rainbow powders for regenerating everybody all round. Won't that be fun?
Rübub. Making powders? Ha! ha! But you will see he won't take one himself. It is quite notorious to us younger men that he simply daren't do it.
Hilda. (with a little snort of contempt). Oh, I daresay—that's so likely! (Defiantly.) I know he can, though. I've seen him!