WALPOLE [grimly irresponsive] No doubt.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN Cubicle, you said it was?

WALPOLE Yes, tubercle.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN Which way do you spell it: is it c-u-b-i-c-a-l or c-l-e?

WALPOLE Tubercle, man, not cubical. [Spelling it for him] T-u-b-e-r-c-l-e.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN Oh! tubercle. Some disease, I suppose. I thought he had consumption. Are you one of the family or the doctor?

WALPOLE I’m neither one nor the other. I am M i s t e r Cutler Walpole. Put that down. Then put down Sir Colenso Ridgeon.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN Pigeon?

WALPOLE Ridgeon. [Contemptuously snatching his book] Here: youd better let me write the names down for you: youre sure to get them wrong. That comes of belonging to an illiterate profession, with no qualifications and no public register.[166] [He writes the particulars].

THE NEWSPAPER MAN Oh, I say: you h a v e got your knife into us, havnt you?

WALPOLE [vindictively] I wish I had: I’d make a better man of you. Now attend. [Shewing him the book] These are the names of the three doctors. This is the patient. This is the address. This is the name of the disease. [He shuts the book with a snap which makes the journalist blink, and returns it to him]. Mr Dubedat will be brought in here presently. He wants to see you because he doesnt know how bad he is. We’ll allow you to wait a few minutes to humor him; but if you talk to him, out you go. He may die at any moment.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [interested] Is he as bad as that? I say: I a m in luck to-day. Would you mind letting me photograph you? [He produces a camera]. Could you have a lancet or something in your hand?

WALPOLE Put it up. If you want my photograph you can get it in Baker Street[167] in any of the series of celebrities.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN But theyll want to be paid. If you wouldnt mind [fingering the camera] — ?

WALPOLE I would. Put it up, I tell you. Sit down there and be quiet.

The NEWSPAPER MAN quickly sits down on the piano stool as DUBEDAT, in an invalid’s chair, is wheeled in by MRS DUBEDAT and SIR RALPH. They place the chair between the dais and the sofa, where the easel stood before. LOUIS is not changed as a robust man would be; and he is not scared. His eyes look larger; and he is so weak physically that he can hardly move, lying on his cushions with complete languor; but his mind is active; it is making the most of his condition, finding voluptuousness in languor and drama in death. They are all impressed, in, spite of themselves, except RIDGEON, who is implacable. B. B. is entirely sympathetic and forgiving. RIDGEON follows the chair with a tray of milk and stimulants. SIR PATRICK, who accompanies him, takes the tea-table from the corner and places it behind the chair for the tray. B. B. takes the easel chair and places it for JENNIFER at DUBEDAT’s side, next the dais, from which the lay figure ogles the dying artist. B. B. then returns to DUBEDAT’s left. JENNIFER sits. WALPOLE sits down on the edge of the dais. RIDGEON stands near him.

L0UIS [blissfully] Thats happiness. To be in a studio! Happiness!

MRS DUBEDAT Yes, dear. Sir Patrick says you may stay here as long as you like.

LOUIS Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT Yes, my darling.

LOUIS Is the newspaper man here?

THE NEWSPAPER MAN [glibly] Yes, Mr Dubedat: I’m here, at your service. I represent the press. I thought you might like to let us have a few words about — about — er — well, a few words on your illness, and your plans for the season.

LOUIS My plans for the season are very simple. I’m going to die.

MRS DUBEDAT [tortured] Louis — dearest —

LOUIS My darling: I’m very weak and tired. Dont put on me the horrible strain of pretending that I dont know. Ive been lying there listening to the doctors — laughing to myself. They know. Dearest: dont cry. It makes you ugly; and I cant bear that. [She dries her eyes and recovers herself with a proud effort]. I want you to promise me something.

MRS DUBEDAT Yes, yes: you know I will. [Imploringly] Only, my love, my love, dont talk: it will waste your strength.

LOUIS No: it will only use it up. Ridgeon: give me something to keep me going for a few minutes — not one of your confounded anti-toxins, if you dont mind. I have some things to say before I go.

RIDGEON [looking at SIR PATRICK] I suppose it can do no harm? [He pours out some spirit, and is about to add soda water when SIR PATRICK corrects him].

SIR PATRICK In milk. Dont set him coughing.

LOUIS [after drinking] Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT Yes, dear.

LOUIS If theres one thing I hate more than another, it’s a widow. Promise me that youll never be a widow.

MRS DUBEDAT My dear, what do you mean?

LOUIS I want you to look beautiful. I want people to see in your eyes that you were married to me. The people in Italy used to point at Dante and say “There goes the man who has been in hell.” I want them to point at you and say “There goes a woman who has been in heaven.” It h a s been heaven, darling, hasnt it — sometimes?

MRS DUBEDAT Oh yes, yes. Always, always.

LOUIS If you wear black and cry, people will say “Look at that miserable woman: her husband made her miserable.”

MRS DUBEDAT No, never. You are the light and the blessing of my life. I never lived until I knew you.

LOUIS [his eyes glistening] Then you must always wear beautiful dresses and splendid magic jewels. Think of all the wonderful pictures I shall never paint. [She wins a terrible victory over a sob]. Well, you must be transfigured with all the beauty of those pictures. Men must get such dreams from seeing you as they never could get from any daubing with paints and brushes. Painters must paint you as they never painted any mortal woman before. There must be a great tradition of beauty, a great atmosphere of wonder and romance. That is what men must always think of when they think of me. That is the sort of immortality I want. You can make that for me, Jennifer. There are lots of things you dont understand that every woman in the street understands; but you can understand that and do it as nobody else can. Promise me that immortality. Promise me you will not make a little hell of crape and crying and undertaker’s horrors and withering flowers and all that vulgar rubbish.

MRS DUBEDAT I promise. But all that is far off, dear. You are to come to Cornwall with me and get well. Sir Ralph says so.

LOUIS Poor old B. B.

B. B. [affected to tears, turns away and whispers to SIR PATRICK] Poor fellow! Brain going.

LOUIS Sir Patrick’s there, isnt he?

SIR PATRICK Yes, yes. I’m here.

LOUIS Sit down, wont you? It’s a shame to keep you standing about.

SIR PATRICK Yes, yes. Thank you. All right.

LOUIS Jennifer.

MRS DUBEDAT Yes, dear.

LOUIS [with a strange look of delight] Do you remember the burning bush?

MRS DUBEDAT Yes, yes. Oh, my dear, how it strains my heart to remember it now!

LOUIS Does it? It fills me with joy. Tell them about it.

MRS DUBEDAT It was nothing — only that once in my old Cornish home we lit the first fire of the winter; and when we looked through the window we saw the flames dancing in a bush in the garden.

LOUIS Such a color! Garnet color. Waving like silk. Liquid lovely flame flowing up through the bay leaves, and not burning them. Well, I shall be a flame like that. I’m sorry to disappoint the poor little worms; but the last of me shall be the flame in the burning bush. Whenever you see the flame, Jennifer, that will be me. Promise me that I shall be burnt.

MRS DUBEDAT Oh, if I might be with you, Louis!