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SALOME.
If we had known Aunt a little longer we might have confided in her and taken her with us.
SHEBA.
Poor Aunt--we mustn't spoil her.
DARBEY.
[_Speaking outside._] I venture to differ with you, my dear Dean.
GEORGIANA.
Here come the wax-works!
[_She joins the girls as DARBEY enters through the Library, patronizing THE DEAN, who accompanies him._
DARBEY.
Haw! I've just been putting the Dean right about a little army question, Mrs.--Mrs.---- I can't catch your name.
GEORGIANA.
Don't try--you'd come out in spots, like measles.
[DARBEY _stands by her, blankly, then attempts a conversation._
THE DEAN.
[_To SALOME and SHEBA._] Children, it is useless to battle against it much longer.
SALOME.
Against what, Papa?
THE DEAN.
A feeling of positive distaste for Mr. Darbey.
SHEBA.
Oh, Papsey--think what Wellington was at his age.
_MAJOR TARVER enters, pale and haggard._
_SALOME meets him._
SALOME.
Major!
TARVER.
[_With a gasp._] Oh!
SALOME.
Not well again?
TARVER.
Indigestion. I'm always like this after dinner.
SALOME.
But what would you do if the trumpet summoned you to battle?
TARVER.
Oh, I suppose I should pack up a few charcoal biscuits and toddle out, you know.
GEORGIANA.
[_To DARBEY._] I've never studied the Army Guide.
DARBEY.
You're thinking of----
GEORGIANA.
The Turf Guide--beg pardon. I mean, the Army keeps a string of trained nurses, doesn't it?
DARBEY.
There _are_ Army nurses.
GEORGIANA.
Certainly. I was wondering whether your Colonel will send one with a perambulator to fetch you at about half-past eight.
[_She leaves DARBEY and goes to THE DEAN. SHEBA joins DARBEY at the piano._
GEORGIANA.
Well, Gus, my boy, you seem out of condition.
THE DEAN.
