The Doctor’s Dilemma

epub:type="z3998:persona">Mrs. Dubedat rises and gasps with delight, relief, and gratitude. They all rise except Sir Patrick and Schutzmacher, and come reassuringly to her. B.B. Certainly, cer-tainly. Walpole There’s no real difficulty, if only you know what to do. Mrs. Dubedat Oh, how can I ever thank you! From this night I can begin to be happy at last. You don’t know what I feel. She sits down in tears. They crowd about her to console her. B.B. My dear lady: come come! come come! Very persuasively. come come! Walpole Don’t mind us. Have a good cry. Ridgeon No: don’t cry. Your husband had better not know that we’ve been talking about him. Mrs. Dubedat Quickly pulling herself together. No, of course not. Please don’t mind me. What a glorious thing it must be to be a doctor! They laugh. Don’t laugh. You don’t know what you’ve done for me. I never knew until now how deadly afraid I was⁠—how I had come to dread the worst. I never dared let myself know. But now the relief has come: now I know. Louis Dubedat comes from the hotel, in his overcoat, his throat wrapped in a shawl. He is a slim young man of 23, physically still a stripling, and pretty, though not effeminate. He has turquoise blue eyes, and a trick of looking you straight in the face with them, which, combined with a frank smile, is very engaging. Although he is all nerves, and very observant and quick of apprehension, he is not in the least shy. He is younger than Jennifer; but he patronizes her as a matter of course. The doctors do not put him out in the least: neither Sir Patrick’s years nor Bloomfield Bonington’s majesty have the smallest apparent effect on him: he is as natural as a cat: he moves among men as most men move among things, though he is intentionally making himself agreeable to them on this occasion. Like all people who can be depended on to take care of themselves, he is welcome company; and his artist’s power of appealing to the imagination gains him credit for all sorts of qualities and powers, whether he possesses them or not. Louis Pulling on his gloves behind Ridgeon’s chair. Now, Jinny-Gwinny: the motor has come round. Ridgeon Why do you let him spoil your beautiful name like that, Mrs. Dubedat? Mrs. Dubedat Oh, on grand occasions I am Jennifer. B.B. You are a bachelor: you do not understand these things, Ridgeon. Look at me They look. I also have two names. In moments of domestic worry, I am simple Ralph. When the sun shines in the home, I am Beedle-Deedle-Dumkins. Such is married life! Mr. Dubedat: may I ask you to do me a favor before you go. Will you sign your name to this menu card, under the sketch you have made of me? Walpole Yes; and mine too, if you will be so good. Louis Certainly. He sits down and signs the cards. Mrs. Dubedat Won’t you sign Dr. Schutzmacher’s for him, Louis? Louis I don’t think Dr. Schutzmacher is pleased with his portrait. I’ll tear it up. He reaches across the table for Schutzmacher’s menu card, and is about to tear it. Schutzmacher makes no sign. Ridgeon No, no: if Loony doesn’t want it, I do. Louis I’ll sign it for you with pleasure. He signs and hands it to Ridgeon. I’ve just been making a little note of the river tonight: it will work up into something good. He shows a pocket sketchbook. I think I’ll call it the Silver Danube. B.B. Ah, charming, charming. Walpole Very sweet. You’re a nailer at pastel. Louis coughs, first out of modesty, then from tuberculosis. Sir Patrick Now then, Mr. Dubedat: you’ve had enough of the night air. Take him home, ma’am. Mrs. Dubedat Yes. Come, Louis. Ridgeon Never fear. Never mind. I’ll make that cough all right. B.B. We will stimulate the phagocytes. With tender effusion, shaking her hand. Good night, Mrs. Dubedat. Good night. Good night. Walpole If the phagocytes fail, come to me. I’ll put you right. Louis Good night, Sir Patrick. Happy to have met you. Sir Patrick ’Night. Half a grunt. Mrs. Dubedat Good night, Sir Patrick. Sir Patrick Cover yourself well up. Don’t think your lungs are made of iron because they’re better than his. Good night. Mrs. Dubedat Thank you. Thank you. Nothing hurts me. Good night. Louis goes out through the hotel without noticing Schutzmacher. Mrs. Dubedat hesitates, then bows to him. Schutzmacher rises and bows formally, German fashion. She goes out, attended by Ridgeon. The rest resume their seats, ruminating or smoking quietly. B.B. Harmoniously. Dee-lightful couple! Charming woman! Gifted lad! Remarkable talent! Graceful outlines! Perfect evening! Great success! Interesting case! Glorious night! Exquisite scenery! Capital dinner! Stimulating conversation! Restful outing! Good wine! Happy ending! Touching gratitude! Lucky Ridgeon⁠— Ridgeon Returning. What’s that? Calling me, B.B.? He goes back to his seat next Sir Patrick. B.B. No, no. Only congratulating you on a most successful evening! Enchanting woman! Thorough breeding! Gentle nature! Refined⁠— Blenkinsop comes from the hotel and takes the empty chair next Ridgeon. Blenkinsop I’m so sorry to have left you like this, Ridgeon; but it was a telephone message from the police. They’ve found half a milkman at our level crossing with a prescription of mine in its pocket. Where’s Mr. Dubedat? Ridgeon Gone. Blenkinsop Rising, very pale. Gone! Ridgeon Just this moment⁠— Blenkinsop Perhaps I could overtake him⁠—he rushes into the hotel. Walpole Calling after him. He’s in the motor, man, miles off. You can⁠—giving it up. No use. Ridgeon They’re really very nice people. I confess I was afraid the husband would turn out an appalling bounder. But he’s almost as charming in his way as she is in hers. And there’s no mistake about his being a genius. It’s something to have got a case really worth saving. Somebody else will have