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._ SIR TRISTRAM. Hullo, Jedd, how are you? THE DEAN. My dear Mardon--are we boys again? SIR TRISTRAM. [_Boisterously._] Of course we are! Boys again! [_He hits THE DEAN violently in the chest._ THE DEAN. [_Breathing heavily--to himself._] I quite forgot how rough Mardon used to be. How it all comes back to me! SIR TRISTRAM. Think I'm changed? THE DEAN. Only in appearance! SIR TRISTRAM. I'm still a bachelor--got terribly jilted by a woman years ago and have run in blinkers ever since. Can't be helped, can it? You're married, aren't you? THE DEAN. [_With dignity._] I have been a widower for fifteen years. SIR TRISTRAM. Oh lor'! awfully sorry--can't be helped though, can it? [_Seizing THE DEAN'S hand and squeezing it._] Forgive me, old chap. THE DEAN. [_Withdrawing his hand with pain._] O-o-oh! SIR TRISTRAM. I've re-opened an old wound--damned stupid of me! THE DEAN. Hush, Mardon! Please! SIR TRISTRAM. All right. What do you think I'm down here for? THE DEAN. For the benefit of your health, Mardon? SIR TRISTRAM. Ha! ha! Never had an ache in my life; sha'n't come and hear you preach next Sunday, Gus. THE DEAN. I do not preach next Sunday! SIR TRISTRAM. You'd better not! No, I'm here for the races. THE DEAN. The races! Hush, my dear Mardon, my girls---- SIR TRISTRAM. Girls! May I trot 'em into the paddock to-morrow? THE DEAN. Thank you, no. SIR TRISTRAM. Think it over. You've seen the list of Starters for the Durnstone Handicap----? THE DEAN. No, I haven't. SIR TRISTRAM. Not! Look here! Sir Tristram Mardon's Dandy Dick, nine stone two, Tom Gallawood up! What do you think of that? THE DEAN. I don't think of anything like that! SIR TRISTRAM. [_Digging THE DEAN in the ribs._] Look out for my colors--black and white, and a pink cap--first past the post to-morrow. THE DEAN. Really, my dear Mardon---- SIR TRISTRAM. Good heavens! Jedd, they talk about Bonny Betsy. THE DEAN. I grieve to hear it. The tongue of scandal---- SIR TRISTRAM. [_Taking THE DEAN'S arm and walking him about._] Do you imagine, sir, for one moment, that Bonny Betsy, with a boy on her back, can get down that bill with those legs of hers? THE DEAN. Another _horse_, I presume? SIR TRISTRAM. No, a bay mare. George Tidd knew what she was about when she stuck to Dandy Dick to the very last. THE DEAN. [_Aghast._] George--Tidd? SIR TRISTRAM. Georgiana Tidman. Dandy came out of her stable after she smashed. THE DEAN. Bless me! SIR TRISTRAM. Poor old George! I wonder what's become of her. THE DEAN.