Just imagine your being Jo Cuthbertson, though! That's a far
more extraordinary coincidence, because I'd got it into my head that
your name was Tranfield.
CUTHBERTSON. Oh, that's my daughter's name. She's a widow, you know.
How uncommonly well you look, Dan! The years haven't hurt you much.
CRAVEN (suddenly becoming unnaturally gloomy). I look well. I even
feel well. But my days are numbered.
CUTHBERTSON (alarmed). Oh don't say that, my dear fellow. I hope not.
JULIA (with anguish in her voice). Daddy! (Cuthbertson looks
inquiringly around at her.)
CRAVEN. There, there, my dear: I was wrong to talk of it. It's a sad
subject. But it's better that Cuthbertson should know. We used to be
very close friends, and are so still, I hope. (Cuthbertson goes to
Craven and presses his hand silently; then returns to sofa and sits,
pulling out his handkerchief and displaying some emotion. )
CHARTERIS (a little impatiently). The fact is, Cuthbertson, Craven's a
devout believer in the department of witchcraft called medical
science. He's celebrated in all the medical schools as an example of
the newest sort of liver complaint.
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