Sylvia Craven is sitting in the middle of the settee before the fire,
only the back of her head being visible. She is reading a volume of
Ibsen. She is a girl of eighteen, small and trim, wearing a smart
tailor-made dress, rather short, and a Newmarket jacket, showing a
white blouse with a light silk sash and a man's collar and watch chain
so arranged as to look as like a man's waistcoat and shirt-front as
possible without spoiling the prettiness of the effect. A Page Boy's
voice, monotonously calling for Dr. Paramore, is heard approaching
outside on the right.)

PAGE (outside). Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore, Dr. Paramore. (He enters
carrying a salver with a card on it.) Dr. Par--

PARAMORE (sharply, sitting up). Here, boy. (The boy presents the
salver. Paramore takes the card and looks at it.) All right: I'll come
down to him. (The boy goes. Paramore rises, and comes from the recess,
throwing his paper on the table.) Good morning, Mr. Cuthbertson
(stopping to pull out his cuffs and shake his coat straight) Mrs.
Tranfield quite well, I hope?

SYLVIA (turning her head indignantly). Sh--sh--sh! (Paramore turns,
surprised. Cuthbertson rises energetically and looks across the
bookstand to see who is the author of this impertinence.)

PARAMORE (to Sylvia--stiffly). I beg your pardon, Miss Craven: I did
not mean to disturb you.

SYLVIA (flustered and self assertive). You may talk as much as you
like if you will only have the common consideration to first ask
whether the other people object. What I protest against is your