Good-morning!

Darbey.

Six o’clock sharp, Dean?

The Dean.

At six, punctually. Salome, represent me by escorting these gentlemen to the gate. [Salome, Tarver, and Darbey go out. Sheba is following slyly when The Dean looks up from his papers.] Sheba!

Sheba.

Papsey!

The Dean.

Check me in a growing tendency to dislike Mr. Garvey. At dinner, Sheba, watch that I carve for him fairly.

Sheba.

Yes, Papsey!

[The Dean turns away and sits on the settee. Sheba, with her head down and her hands folded, walks towards the door, and then bounds out.

The Dean.

[Turning the papers over in his hand, solemnly.] Bills! [He rises, walks thoughtfully to a chair, sits and examines papers again.] Bills! [He rises again, walks to another chair, and sinks into it with a groan.] Bills!

Salome and Sheba re-enter.

Salome.

[To Sheba, in a whisper.] Papa’s alone!

Sheba.

A beautiful opportunity to ask for that little present of money. Poor dear Papa!

Salome and Sheba.

Poor dear Papa!

[They link their hands together and walk as if going out through the Library.

The Dean.

[Looking up.] Don’t go, children!

[He rises, the girls rush to him, and laughing with joy they turn him like a top, dancing round him.

[Panting.] Stop, children!

Sheba.

Papsey’s in a good humor!

Salome.

[Pinching his chin.] He always is!

Sheba.

Papsey will listen to our little wants!

[They force him into a chair. Salome sits on the ground embracing his legs, Sheba lies on the top of the table.

The Dean.

Oh dear, oh dear! Your wants are very little ones. What are they, Salome? What are they, toy-child?

Salome.

Papa! Have you any spare cash?

The Dean.

Spare cash! Playful Salome!

Sheba.

£—s—d, Papsey, or £—s, Papsey, and never mind the—d.

The Dean.

Ha! ha! I am glad, really glad, children, that you have broken through a reserve which has existed on this point for at least a fortnight—and babbled for money.

Sheba and Salome.

[Laughing with delight.] Ha! ha!

The Dean.

It gives me the opportunity of meeting your demands with candor. Children, I have love for you, solicitude for you, but—I have no spare cash for anybody.

[He rises and walks gloomily across to the piano, on the top of which he commences to arrange his bills. In horror Salome scrambles up from the floor, and Sheba wriggles off the table. Simultaneously they drop on to the same chair and huddle together.

Salome.

[To herself.] Lost!

Sheba.

[To herself.] Done for!

The Dean.

And now you have so cheerily opened the subject, let me tell you with equal good humor [emphatically flourishing the bills] that this sort of thing must be put a stop to. Your dressmaker’s bill is shocking; your milliner gives an analytical record of the feverish beatings of the hot pulse of fashion; your general draper blows a rancorous blast which would bring dismay to the stoutest heart. Let me for once peal out a deep paternal bass to your childish treble and say emphatically—I’ve had enough of it!

[He paces up and down. The two girls utter a loud yell of grief.

Sheba.

[Through her tears.] We’ve been brought up as young ladies—that can’t be done for nothing!

Salome.

Sheba’s small, but she cuts into a lot of material.

The Dean.

My girls, it is such unbosomings as this which preserve the domestic unison of a family. Weep, howl, but listen. The total of these weeds which spring up in the beautiful garden of paternity is a hundred and fifty-six, eighteen, three. Now, all the money I can immediately command is considerably under five hundred pounds.

Salome.

Oh, Papa!

Sheba.

Oh! what a lot!

The Dean.

Hush! But read, Salome, read aloud this paragraph in “The Times” of yesterday. There, my child.

[He hands a copy of “The Times” to Salome with his finger upon a paragraph.

Salome.

[Reading.] “A Munificent Offer. Dr. Jedd, the Dean of St. Marvells, whose anxiety for the preservation of the Minister Spire threatens to undermine his health, has subscribed the munificent sum of one thousand pounds to the Restoration Fund.” [Indignantly.] Oh!

Sheba.

Oh! and we gasping for clothing!

The Dean.

Read on, my child.

Salome.

[Reading.] “On condition that seven other donors come forward, each with the like sum.”

Salome.

And will they?

The Dean.

[Anxiously.] My darling, times are bad, but one never knows.

Sheba.

If they don’t!

The Dean.

Then you will have your new summer dresses as usual.

Salome.

[Hoarsely.] But if they do! Speak, Father!

The Dean.

[Gloomily.] Then we will all rejoice!

Sheba and Salome.

Rejoice!

The Dean.

And retrench. Two R’s, little ones. Retrench and Rejoice.

[The two girls cling to each other as Blore comes from the Library with two letters on a salver.

Blore.

The second post, sir—just hin.

The Dean.

[Blandly.] Thank you.

Blore.

[Hearing Salome and Sheba crying.] They’ve ’ad a scolding, ’ussies. Let ’em ’ang that on the ’atstand!

[He is going out.

The Dean.