CARVE. Shawn, my poor fellow, he takes you for the illustrious Ilam
Carve. This is what comes of me rushing out in shirt sleeves. (Gesture
of despair.) I can't explain it to him.

SHAWN. But----

CARVE. It's all right. You'll be infinitely better looked after, you
know, and I shall be saved from their infernal curiosity.

SHAWN. It's only this, sir. I was half-expecting a young lady to-night,
sir (very feebly). At least, I believe she's young.

CARVE. Shawn, I've always suspected you were a bad lot. Now I know. I
also know why you were so devilish anxious to put me to bed early. What
am I to say to this young lady on your behalf?

(SHAWN worse, too ill to answer. Pause. Re-enter DR. PASCOE,
very rapidly, with a large tumbler half-full of hot liquid.)

PASCOE. You may say I've been quick. (As he bends down to SHAWN,
addressing CARVE.) Get me a wine glass of clean cold water. (To
SHAWN.) Now, please. I want you to drink a little brandy and water.
(SHAWN makes no response.) By Jove! (The doctor pours some of the
brandy and water down SHAWN'S throat.)

CARVE. (Who has been wandering about vaguely.) I don't think we've got
a wine glass. There's a cup, but I suppose that isn't medical enough.

PASCOE. (Taking a syringe from his pocket and unscrewing it.) Pour