No. I shouldn’t have dreamed of going to a specialist, only your mother was worrying.
Sylvia.
Don’t put all the blame on her. I was, too.
John.
[Going over to him and putting his arm in his.] Poor old father, you mustn’t be ill.
Colonel Wharton.
Oh, I’m not going to die just yet, you know.
John.
I should jolly well think not. Wait till you’re a hundred and two, and then we’ll begin talking about it.
[The Vicar of Stour, the Rev. Norman Poole, appears at the window. He is a tall, thin man, bald, dressed in a short black coat, with a black straw hat. He is energetic, breezy, and cheerful. He likes to show that, although a clergyman, he is a man; and he affects a rather professional joviality. Mr. and Mrs. Poole have that physical resemblance which you sometimes see in married people. You wonder if they married because they were so much alike, or if it is marriage which has created the similarity.