Ridgeon.  In short, as a member of a high and great profession, I’m to kill my patient.

Sir Patrick.  Dont talk wicked nonsense.  You cant kill him.  But you can leave him in other hands.

Ridgeon.  In B. B.’s, for instance:  eh? [looking at him significantly].

Sir Patrick [demurely facing his look] Sir Ralph Bloomfield Bonington is a very eminent physician.

Ridgeon.  He is.

Sir Patrick.  I’m going for my hat.

Ridgeon strikes the bell as Sir Patrick makes for the hotel.  A waiter comes.

Ridgeon [to the waiter] My bill, please.

Waiter.  Yes, sir.

He goes for it.

ACT III

In Dubedat’s studio.  Viewed from the large window the outer door is in the wall on the left at the near end.  The door leading to the inner rooms is in the opposite wall, at the far end.  The facing wall has neither window nor door.  The plaster on all the walls is uncovered and undecorated, except by scrawlings of charcoal sketches and memoranda.  There is a studio throne (a chair on a dais) a little to the left, opposite the inner door, and an easel to the right, opposite the outer door, with a dilapidated chair at it.  Near the easel and against the wall is a bare wooden table with bottles and jars of oil and medium, paint-smudged rags, tubes of color, brushes, charcoal, a small last figure, a kettle and spirit-lamp, and other odds and ends.  By the table is a sofa, littered with drawing blocks, sketch-books, loose sheets of paper, newspapers, books, and more smudged rags.  Next the outer door is an umbrella and hat stand, occupied partly by Louis’ hats and cloak and muffler, and partly by odds and ends of costumes.  There is an old piano stool on the near side of this door.  In the corner near the inner door is a little tea-table.  A lay figure, in a cardinal’s robe and hat, with an hour-glass in one hand and a scythe slung on its back, smiles with inane malice at Louis, who, in a milkman’s smock much smudged with colors, is painting a piece of brocade which he has draped about his wife.

She is sitting on the throne, not interested in the painting, and appealing to him very anxiously about another matter.

Mrs Dubedat.  Promise.

Louis [putting on a touch of paint with notable skill and care and answering quite perfunctorily] I promise, my darling.

Mrs Dubedat.  When you want money, you will always come to me.

Louis.  But it’s so sordid, dearest.  I hate money.  I cant keep always bothering you for money, money, money.  Thats what drives me sometimes to ask other people, though I hate doing it.

Mrs Dubedat.  It is far better to ask me, dear.  It gives people a wrong idea of you.

Louis.  But I want to spare your little fortune, and raise money on my own work.  Dont be unhappy, love:  I can easily earn enough to pay it all back.  I shall have a one-man-show next season; and then there will be no more money troubles. [Putting down his palette] There!  I mustnt do any more on that until it’s bone-dry; so you may come down.