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[_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 att.i.tudes._
TARVER.
[_To THE DEAN._] We waited to say--good-morning.
THE DEAN.
[_Taking his hand, abstractedly._] How kind! 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.
