Darbey strolls in from the Library with Sheba.

Darbey.

[To Sheba.] Your remarks about the army are extremely complimentary. On behalf of the army I thank you. We fellows are not a bad sort, take us all round.

Sheba.

There’s a grand future before you, isn’t there?

Darbey.

Well, I suppose there is if I go on as I’m going now.

Tarver.

[To Salome.] Thanks, the attack has passed. Now about to-night; at what time is the house entirely quiet?

Salome.

Poor dear Papa goes round with Blore at half-past nine—after that all is rest and peacefulness.

Tarver.

Then if we’re here with the closed carriage at ten—!

[They go together into the library.

Darbey.

[To Sheba.] Some of us army men can slave too. Tarver’s queer livah has thrown all the arrangements for the Fancy Ball on my shoulders. [Salome and Tarver re-enter.] Look at him—that’s when he’s enjoying life!

Tarver.

[Laughing convulsively.] Ha! ha! ha! ho! he! he! Good, eh, Miss Jedd?

Salome.

But suppose dear Papa should hear us crunching down the gravel path!

Tarver.

Oh!

[He sinks on to the settee with a vacant stare, his arms hanging helplessly.

Darbey.

[To Sheba.] There—now his career is a burden to him!

Sheba.

Oh!

Salome.

Would you like a glass of water, Major Tarver?

Tarver.

[Taking Salome’s hand.] Thank you, dear Miss Jedd, with the least suggestion of cayenne pepper in it.

Sheba.

[Looking out at window.] Oh, Salome! Papa! Papa!

Tarver.

The Dean?

Darbey.

The Dean!

[They all collect themselves in a fluster. The two girls go to meet their father, who enters at the window with his head bowed and his hands behind his back, in deep thought. The Dean is a portly man of about fifty, with a dignified demeanor, a suave voice and persuasive manner, and a noble brow surmounted by silver-gray hair. Blore follows The Dean, carrying some books, a small bunch of flowers, and an umbrella.

Salome.

[Tenderly.] Papa!

Sheba.

Papsey!

[The Dean rouses himself, discovers his children and removes his hat.

The Dean.

[To Salome.] Salome! [To Sheba.] My toy-child! [He draws the girls to him and embraces them, then sees Tarver and Darbey.] Dear me! Strangers!

Tarver and Darbey.

[Coughing uncomfortably.] H’m!

Salome.

[Reproachfully, taking his hat from him.] Papa! Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey have ridden over from Durnstone to ask how your cold is.

[Sheba takes the gold-rimmed pince-nez which hangs upon The Dean’s waistcoat and places it before his eyes.

The Dean.

Dear me! Major! Mr. Garvey.

Sheba.

Mr. Darbey!

The Dean.

Darbey! How good of you! [With his girls still embracing him he extends a hand to each of the men.] My cold is better. [Blore goes out through the Library.] Major—Mr. Garvey—these inquiries strike me as being so kind that I insist—no, no, I beg that you will share our simple dinner with us to-night at six o’clock!

Tarver.

[Disconcerted.] Oh!

Darbey.

H’m!

The Dean.

Let me see—Tuesday night is——

Salome.

Leg of mutton, Papa!

The Dean.

Thank you. Mutton, hot.

Sheba.

And custards, Papsey.

The Dean.

Thank you, toy-child—custards, cold. And a welcome—warm.

Tarver.

[Looking to Salome.] Well, I—ah—[Salome nods her head to him violently.] That is, certainly, Dean, certainly.

Darbey.

Delighted, my dear Dean—delighted!

[The Dean gives Darbey a severe look, and with an important cough walks into the Library. The men and the girls speak in undertones.

Tarver.

[Depressed.] Now, what will happen to-night?

Salome.

Why, don’t you see, as you will have to drive over to dine, you will both be here, on the spot, ready to take us back to Durnstone?

[The Dean sits at his desk in the Library.

Darbey.

Of course; when we’re turned out we can hang about in the lane till you’re ready.

Tarver.

Yes, but when are we to make our preparations? It’ll take me a long time to look like Charles the First!

Sheba.

We can drive about Durnstone while you dress.

Salome.

[To Tarver, admiringly.] Charles the First! Oh, Major!

Darbey.

That was my idea—Charles the Martyr, you know. Tarver’s a martyr to his liver—see?

Sheba.

Oh! sha’n’t we all look magnificent?

Salome.

Oh!

Tarver.

Grand idea—the whole thing!

Darbey.

Regular army notion!

[They are all in a state of great excitement when The Dean re-enters, with an anxious look, carrying a bundle of papers.

Salome.

Here is Papa!

[They rush to various seats, all in constrained attitudes.

Tarver.

[To The Dean.] We waited to say—good-morning.

The Dean.

[Taking his hand, abstractedly.] How kind!