CRAVEN (astonished). Who?
SYLVIA. Why, good old Henrik, of course.
CRAVEN (puzzled). Henrik?
CUTHBERTSON (impatiently). Ibsen, man: Ibsen. (He goes out by the
staircase door followed by Sylvia, who kisses her hand to the bust as
she passes. Craven stares blankly after her, and then up at the bust.
Giving the problem up as insoluble, he shakes his head and follows
them. Near the door he checks himself and comes back.)
CRAVEN (softly). By the way, Paramore?--
PARAMORE (rousing himself with an effort). Yes?
CRAVEN. You weren't in earnest that time about my heart, were you?
PARAMORE. Oh, nothing, nothing. There's a slight murmur--mitral valves
a little worn, perhaps; but they'll last your time if you're careful.
Don't smoke too much.
CRAVEN. What! More privations! Now really, Paramore, really--
PARAMORE (rising distractedly). Excuse me: I can't pursue the subject.
I--I--
JULIA. Don't worry him now, Daddy.
CRAVEN. Well, well: I won't. (He comes to Paramore, who is pacing
restlessly up and down the middle of the room.) Come, Paramore, I'm
not selfish, believe me: I can feel for your disappointment.
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