class="dialogue">Then we must play the piano when he’s at work on his Concordance—poor dear Papa!

Salome.

However, don’t let us wrong poor Papa in advance. Let us try to think how nice we shall look.

Sheba.

Oh yes—sha’n’t I!

Salome.

Oh, I shall! And as for stealing out of the house with Major Tarver when poor dear Papa has gone to bed, why, Gerald Tarver would die for me!

Sheba.

So would Nugent Darbey for me; besides I’m not old enough to know better.

Salome.

You’re not so very much younger than I, Sheba!

Sheba.

Indeed, Salome! Then why do you keep me in short skirts?

Salome.

Why! you cruel girl! You know I can’t lengthen you till I’m married!

[Blore, the butler, a venerable-looking person, with rather a clerical suggestion about his dress, enters by the window.

Blore.

[Benignly.] The two soldier gentlemen have just rode hup, Miss Salome.

[The girls clutch each other’s hands.

Salome.

You mean Major Tarver?

Sheba.

And Mr. Darbey. They have called to inquire after poor Papa.

Salome.

Poor Papa!

Blore.

Shall I show them hin, Miss Sheba?

Sheba.

Yes, Blore, dear, and hang your h’s on the hat-stand.

[Blore laughs sweetly at Sheba and shakes his fingers at her playfully.

Blore.

[Vindictively, behind their backs.] ’Ussies!

[He goes out.

Salome.

Am I all right, Sheba?

Sheba.

Yes. Am I?

Salome.

Yes. [Looking out at window.] Here they are! How well Gerald Tarver dismounts! Oh!

Sheba.

He left his liver in India, didn’t he?

Salome.

No—only part of it.

Sheba.

Well—part of it.

Salome.

And that he gave to his Queen, brave fellow!

Sheba.

[Seating herself in an artificial attitude.] Where shall we be—here?

Salome.

[Running to the piano.] All right; you be admiring my voice!

Sheba.

Oh, I dare say!

Salome.

Here they are, and we’re doing nothing!

Sheba.

Let’s run away and then come in unconsciously.

Salome.

Yes—unconsciously.

[They run off through the Library. Blore shows in Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey, who are both in regimentals. Major Tarver is a middle-aged, tall, angular officer, with a thin face, yellow complexion, and red eyes. He is alternately in a state of great excitement and depression. Mr. Darbey is a mere boy, but with a pompous, patronizing manner.

Darbey.

The Dean’s out of the way, eh!

Blore.

Yes, sir, he his.

Tarver.

Eh? How is the Dean? Never mind—perhaps Miss Jedd is at home?

Blore.

Yes, sir, she his.

Tarver.

It would be discourteous to run away without asking Miss Jedd after her father.

Darbey.

[Throwing himself on the settee.] Deuced bad form!

Blore.

The ladies were ’ere a minute ago.

[Salome and Sheba walk in together. Salome has her arm round her sister’s waist and looks up to her with a sweet, trusting smile. They start in confusion on seeing Tarver and Darbey.

Salome.

Major Tarver.

Sheba.

Mr. Darbey.

Tarver.

[Taking Salome’s hand eagerly.] My dear Miss Jedd!

Darbey.

[Rising and putting a glass to his eye.] Hah yah! Hah yah!

Salome.

[With her hand on her heart.] You quite startled us.

Tarver.

[In an agony of contrition.] Oh, did we?

Darbey.

Awfully cut up to hear it.

Sheba.

We never dreamt of finding two visitors for Papa.

Blore.

Why, you told me to show the gentlemen hin, Miss Sheba!

[The two girls start guiltily and glare at Blore.

Salome.

[With suppressed rage.] You needn’t wait, Blore!

Blore.

[To himself.] Let ’em ’ang that on the ’atstand!

[Blore goes out. Darbey and Sheba stroll together into the Library.

Tarver.

[To Salome.] We thought we’d ride over directly after parade to make the final arrangements for tonight. Have the costumes arrived?

Salome.

Yes, they came yesterday in a hamper labeled “Miss Jedd, Secretary, Cast-off Clothing Distribution League.”

Tarver.

That was my idea—came to me in the middle of the night.

Salome.

Dear Major Tarver, surely this terrible strain on your nerves is very, very bad for you with your—your——

Tarver.

My liver—say the word, Miss Jedd.

Salome.

[Drooping her head.] Oh, Major Tarver!

Tarver.

It is frightfully injurious. Of course I’m excited now, and you see me at my best, but the alternating fits of hopeless despondency are shocking to witness and to endure!

Salome.

Oh!

Tarver.

It’s all that damned India! Oh! what have I said! You will never forgive me.

Salome.

Indeed, indeed I will!

Tarver.

Never. Oh, Miss Jedd, my forgetfulness has brought me—one of my—terrible attacks—of depression!

Salome.

Major Tarver!

[She leads him to a chair into which he sinks in a ghastly state.