(He
holds out Grace's letter.) A blue card as usual! This time I shall not
trust the waste paper basket. (He goes to the fire, and throws the
letters into it.)
CUTHBERTSON (facing him with folded arms as he comes down again). May
I ask, Mr. Charteris, is this the New Humour?
CHARTERIS (still too preoccupied with his own difficulty to have any
sense of the effect he is producing on the others). Oh, stuff! Do you
suppose it's a joke to be situated as I am? You've got your head so
stuffed with the New Humour and the New Woman and the New This, That
and the Other, all mixed up with your own old Adam, that you've lost
your senses.
CUTHBERTSON (strenuously). Do you see that old man, grown grey in the
honoured service of his country, whose last days you have blighted?
CHARTERIS (surprised, looking at Craven and realizing his distress
with genuine concern). I'm very sorry. Come, Craven; don't take it to
heart. (Craven shakes his head.) I assure you it means nothing: it
happens to me constantly.
CUTHBERTSON. There is only one excuse for you. You are not fully
responsible for your actions. Like all advanced people, you have got
neurasthenia.
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