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[_Extricating himself._] Oh! Mrs. Tidman! Go to your room!
GEORGIANA.
Augustin!
THE DEAN.
In the morning I will endeavor to frame some verbal expression of the horror with which I regard your proposal. For the present, you are my parents' child and I trust your bed is well aired.
GEORGIANA.
Oh, very well, Augustin. I've done all I can for the Spire. _Bon soir,_ old boy!
THE DEAN.
Good-night.
GEORGIANA.
If you're wiser in the morning just send Blore on to the course and he'll put the money on for you.
THE DEAN.
Blore! My poor devoted old servant would be lost on a race-course.
GEORGIANA.
Would he! He was quite at home in Tattersall's Ring when I was at St.
Marvells last summer.
THE DEAN.
Blore!
GEORGIANA.
Blore. I recognized the veteran sportsman the moment I came into the Deanery.
THE DEAN.
What was my butler doing at St. Marvells Races?
_BLORE enters with his lantern._
GEORGIANA.
Investing the savings of your cook and housemaid, of course. You don't think your servants are as narrow as you are!
THE DEAN.
Oh!
BLORE.
I beg your pardon, sir, shall I go the rounds, sir?
[_THE DEAN gives Blore a fierce look, but BLORE beams sweetly._
GEORGIANA.
Blore!
BLORE.
Mum?
GEORGIANA.
Breakfast at nine, sharp. And pack a hamper with a cold chicken, some French rolls, and two bottles of Heidsieck--label it "George Tidd,"
and send it on to the Hill. I'll stand the racket. Goodnight.
[_She goes out. THE DEAN sinks into a chair and clasps his forehead._
BLORE.
A dear, 'igh-sperited lady. [_Leaning over THE DEAN._] Aren't you well, sir?
THE DEAN.
Serpent!
BLORE.
Meanin' _me,_ sir?
THE DEAN
Lock up; I'll speak to you in the morning. Lock up.
[_BLORE goes into the Library, turns out the lamp there, and disappears._
What dreadful wave threatens to engulf the Deanery? What has come to us in a few fatal hours? A horse of sporting tendencies contaminating my stables, his equally vicious owner nestling in the nursery, and my own widowed sister, in all probability, smoking a cigarette at her bedroom window with her feet on the window-ledge! [_Listening._]
What's that? [_He peers through the window curtains._] I thought I heard footsteps in the garden. I can see nothing--only the old spire standing out against the threatening sky. [_Leaving the window shudderingly._] The Spire! My princ.i.p.al creditor! My princ.i.p.al creditor, the most conspicuous object in the city!
_BLORE re-enters with his lantern, carrying some bank-notes in his hand._
BLORE.
