SYLVESTER.

Death-bed repentance, then. That's the one problem it discusses.

GUEST.

It is the one problem in life.

PERCY.

The theatre is dying! Dixi!

[_Leans back again._

DOCTOR.

The novel will sweep everything before it.

SYLVESTER.

You mean, the female novel?

DOCTOR.

Nothing can stop it.

SYLVESTER.

No, it stops at nothing.

DOCTOR.

Nor will it, till the problem is solved. That solution, I venture to predict, will be on the lines of pure mathematics.

SYLVESTER.

Really?

[_Smothering a yawn._

DOCTOR.

I put the proposition in this way. The s.e.xes are parallel lines.

SYLVESTER.

Which are bound to meet.

DOCTOR.

I must not be taken to admit, that there is any physiological necessity.

VOICES.

Certainly not.

DOCTOR [_to LADY WARGRAVE, who is pa.s.sing_].

I am sure, Lady Wargrave must agree with us.

LADY WARGRAVE.

What is that, Doctor?

DOCTOR.

That there is no physiological necessity----

LADY WARGRAVE.

To discuss physiology? I am quite of your opinion.

[_Pa.s.ses on._

ENID [_who is in a group surrounding COLONEL]._

That's where we differ. What is _your_ view, Colonel?

COLONEL.

My dear Miss Bethune, there is no occasion for Man to express _any_ view, when Woman expresses them all. First, you must reconcile your internal differences.

VOICE.

But we can't.

COLONEL.

To begin with, you must make up your minds whether you wish to regenerate us or to degrade yourselves.

ENID.

Regenerate you, of course.

COLONEL.

Miss Vivash prefers the alternative.

ENID.