Tom. Yes, that’s true enough.
Mat. And ain’t ye engaged to a rale cornel’s daughter? And isn’t that something to live for? (Goes to table and cuts bread and butter.)
Tom (seated). Oh, I’ve plenty to live for, but I’ve nothing to live on. Upon my word, Matilda, when you come to think of it, it is a most extraordinary thing that I can’t get any patients! I’m a qualified practitioner, right enough! I’ve passed the College of Surgeons!
Mat. So have I, dear, often.
Tom. You can’t be more a surgeon than I am, put it how you will; but nobody seems to know it, and I’m sure I don’t know how to tell ’em. I can’t send sandwich men about with advertisements—the College wouldn’t like that. I can’t hang placards out from a real colonel’s balcony, “Walk up, walk up, this is the Shop for Amputations!” or, “To married couples and others”—the Horse Guards wouldn’t like that. (Taking up carving-knife.) Upon my word, Matilda, when I look at you, and reflect that there isn’t an operation in the whole range of practical surgery that I shouldn’t be delighted to perform upon you at five minutes’ notice for nothing, why, it does seem a most extraordinary thing that I can’t get any patients!
Enter Colonel O’Fipp, in seedy, showy dressing-gown.
O’Fi. Good mornin’, Thomas; Matilda, my own, the mornin’ to ye. (Kisses her.) Breakfast ready? That’s well. Good appetite, Thomas? (They sit to breakfast.)
Tom. Tremendous. (Taking an egg.)
O’Fi. (aside). Then I’ll spile it for ye. (Aloud.) Don’t crack that egg till you’re sure ye’ll want it. (Takes it from him.) Thomas Cobb, I’m goin’ to have a wurr’d or two with ye about your prospects, sorr.
Tom. Oh, Lord! (Turns away from his breakfast.)