Doctor (severely). Of course!
Bishop (in a low tone). Tell me—how is the boy?
Doctor (gloomily). Very bad.
Bishop. So?
Doctor. Passing rapidly, even beyond my skill! (So he goes to the fire, and stirs it ill-humouredly to an even more furious activity.)
Bishop. Already? (Murmurs.) Then we must make haste.
(Meanwhile the Nurse, as a hot little hand returns the drinking cup through the bed-curtains, softly asks:)
Nurse. Is that better? (To which the sick child within makes inarticulate, fretful reply. So she closes the curtains again tightly.) Try now to go to sleep again, and you will wake up quite well. (Soothingly.) Quite well!
(Then, with a profound obeisance to the Bishop, she goes to the table at the foot of the bed and replaces the cup among the many, many medicine bottles and phials of drugs; while outside, in the sunshine of the corridor, Beppo chants tunefully and joyously over his birds’-nest.)