PASCOE. (Glancing round quickly.) This the patient? (Goes to SHAWN,
and looks at him. Then, taking a clinical thermometer from his pocket
and wiping it; with marked respect.) Allow me to put this under your
tongue for half a minute. (Having done so, he takes SHAWN'S wrist
and, looking at his watch, counts the patient's pulse. Then turning to
CARVE, in a low curt voiced) When did this begin?

CARVE. Just now. That is, he only began to complain about six o'clock.
We arrived in London this morning from Madrid.

PASCOE. (Reading thermometer.) Temperature 104-1/2. Pulse is 140--and
weak. I must have some boiling water.

CARVE. (At a loss.) What for?

PASCOE. What for? For a poultice.

CARVE. (Helplessly.) But there isn't any ... we've nothing except this
spirit-lamp. (Pointing to lamp on table.)

PASCOE. No women in the house?

CARVE. (With humour that the doctor declines to see.) Not one.

PASCOE. (Controlling his exasperation.) Never mind. I'll run round to
the surgery and get my hypodermic. (To SHAWN, reassuringly and
deferentially.) I shall be back at once, Mr. Carve. (To CARVE, near
door.) Keep your master well covered up--I suppose you can do that?

(Exit.)