more extraordinary coincidence, because I'd got it into my head that
your name was Tranfield.

CUTHBERTSON. Oh, that's my daughter's name. She's a widow, you know.
How uncommonly well you look, Dan! The years haven't hurt you much.

CRAVEN (suddenly becoming unnaturally gloomy). I look well. I even
feel well. But my days are numbered.

CUTHBERTSON (alarmed). Oh don't say that, my dear fellow. I hope not.

JULIA (with anguish in her voice). Daddy! (Cuthbertson looks
inquiringly around at her.)

CRAVEN. There, there, my dear: I was wrong to talk of it. It's a sad
subject. But it's better that Cuthbertson should know. We used to be
very close friends, and are so still, I hope. (Cuthbertson goes to
Craven and presses his hand silently; then returns to sofa and sits,
pulling out his handkerchief and displaying some emotion. )

CHARTERIS (a little impatiently). The fact is, Cuthbertson, Craven's a
devout believer in the department of witchcraft called medical
science. He's celebrated in all the medical schools as an example of
the newest sort of liver complaint. The doctors say he can't last
another year; and he has fully made up his mind not to survive next
Easter, just to oblige them.

CRAVEN (with military affectation). It's very kind of you to try to
keep up my spirits by making light of it, Charteris. But I shall be
ready when my time comes. I'm a soldier. (A sob from Julia.) Don't