Aunt! [She kisses Salome with a good hearty smack.] [To Sheba.] Kiss your Aunt! [She embraces Sheba, then stands between the two girls and surveys them critically, touching them alternately with the end of her cane.] Lord bless you both! What names do you run under?

Salome.

I—I am Salome.

Sheba.

I am Sheba.

Georgiana.

[Looking at Sheba.] Why, little ’un, your stable companion could give you a stone and then get her nose in front!

The Dean.

[Who has been impatiently fuming.] Georgiana, I fear these poor innocents don’t follow your well-intentioned but inappropriate illustrations.

Georgiana.

Oh, we’ll soon wake ’em up. Well, Augustin, my boy, it’s nearly twenty years since you and I munched our corn together.

The Dean.

Our estrangement has been painfully prolonged.

Georgiana.

Since then we’ve both run many races, though we’ve never met in the same events. The world has ridden us both pretty hard at times, Gus, hasn’t it? We’ve been punished and pulled and led down pretty often, but here we are [tapping him sharply in the chest with her cane] sound in the wind yet. You’re doing well, Gus, and they say you’re going up the hill neck-and-neck with your Bishop. I’ve dropped out of it—the mares don’t last, Gus—and it’s good and kind of you to give me a dry stable and a clean litter, and to keep me out of the shafts of a “Shrewsbury and Talbot.”

Sheba.

[In a whisper to Salome.] Salome, I don’t quite understand her—but I like Aunt.

Salome.

So do I. But she’s not my idea of a weary fragment or a chastened widow.

The Dean.

My dear Georgiana, I rejoice that you meet me in this affectionate spirit, and when—pardon me—when you have a little caught the tone of the Deanery——

Georgiana.

Oh, I’ll catch it; if I don’t the Deanery will a little catch my tone—the same thing.

[Sheba laughs.

The Dean.

[Reprovingly.] Toy-child!

Georgiana.

Trust George Tidd for setting things quite square in a palace or a puddle.

The Dean.

George Tidd! Who is George Tidd?

Georgiana.

I am George Tidd—that was my racing name. Ask after George Tidd at Newmarket—they’ll tell you all about me. My colors were crimson and black diamonds. There you are.

[Producing her pocket-handkerchief, which is crimson and black.

The Dean.

Dear me! Very interesting! Georgiana, my dear. One moment, children.

[The girls go into the Library.

The Dean.

[Tapping the handkerchief.] I understand distinctly from your letter that all this is finally abandoned?

Georgiana.

Worse luck! They’ll never see my colors at the post again!

The Dean.

And the contemplation of sport generally as a mental distraction——?

Georgiana.

Oh, yes—I dare say you’ll manage to wean me from that, too, in time.

The Dean.

In time! Well, but—Georgiana!

[The gate bell is heard again, the girls re-enter.

Georgiana.

There’s a visitor. I’ll tootle upstairs and have a groom down. [To Salome and Sheba.] Make the running, girls. At what time do we feed, Augustin?

The Dean.

There is luncheon at one o’clock.

Georgiana.

Right. The air here is so fresh I sha’n’t be sorry to get my nose-bag on.

[She stalks out, accompanied by the girls.

The Dean.

My sister, Georgiana—my widowed sister, Georgiana. Dear me, I am quite disturbed. Surely, surely the serene atmosphere of the Deanery will work a change. It must! It must! If not, what a grave mistake I have made. Good gracious! No, no, I won’t think of it! Still, it is a little unfortunate that poor Georgiana should arrive here on the very eve of these terrible races at St. Marvells.

Blore enters with a card.

The Dean.

Who is it, Blore? [Reading the card.] “Sir Tristram Mardon.” Dear, dear! Certainly, Blore, certainly. [Blore goes out.] Mardon—why, Mardon and I haven’t met since Oxford.

[Blore re-enters, showing in Sir Tristram Mardon, a well-preserved man of about fifty, with a ruddy face and jovial manner, the type of the thorough English sporting gentleman. Blore goes out.