[_TARVER with a groan of despair sinks on to the settee._ SHEBA. Never mind--Mr. Darbey will play. DARBEY. [_Tuning his violin._] Will you accompany me? SHEBA. [_Raising her eyes._] To the end of the world. [_She sits at the piano._ DARBEY. My mother says that my bowing is something like Joachim's, and she ought to know. SHEBA. Why? DARBEY. Oh, because she's heard Joachim. [_DARBEY plays and SHEBA accompanies him. SALOME sits beside TARVER._ GEORGIANA. [_To herself._] Well, after all, George, my boy, you're not stabled in such a bad box! Here is a regular pure, simple, English Evening at Home! THE DEAN. [_Mumbling to himself._] A thousand pounds to the Restoration Fund and all those bills to settle--oh dear! oh dear! What shall I do? SALOME. [_To herself._] I hope my ball-dress will drive all the other women mad! TARVER. [_To himself--glaring at DARBEY._] I feel I should like to garrote him with his bass string. GEORGIANA. [_Frowning at her betting book._] I think I shall hedge a bit over the Crumbleigh Stakes. DARBEY. [_As he plays, glancing at TARVER._] I wonder how old Tarver's Chest C likes a holiday. SHEBA. [_As she plays._] We must get Pa to bed early. Dear Papa's always so dreadfully in the way. GEORGIANA. [_Looking around._] No--there's nothing like it in any other country. A regular, pure, simple, English Evening at Home! _BLORE enters quickly, cutting "The Times" with a paper-knife as he enters._ BLORE. The paper's just arrived. [_The music stops abruptly--all the ladies glare at BLORE and hush him down._ GEORGIANA, SALOME, _and_ SHEBA. Sssssh! THE DEAN. [_Taking the paper from BLORE._] This is my fault--there may be something in "The Times" of special interest to me. Thank you, Blore. [_BLORE goes out._ TARVER. Ha, ha, ha! spoilt his pianissimo! THE DEAN. [_Scanning the paper._] Oh, I can't believe it! GEORGIANA. What's the matter? SALOME _and_ SHEBA. Papa! TARVER _and_ DARBEY. The Dean! THE DEAN. Children! Georgiana! Friends! My munificent offer has produced the desired result. SALOME _and_ SHEBA. Oh! THE DEAN. Seven wealthy people, including three brewers, have come forward with a thousand pounds apiece in aid of the restoration of the Minster Spire! SALOME _and_ SHEBA. [_Horrified._] Ah! GEORGIANA. That means a cool thousand out of your pocket, Gus. THE DEAN. Yes. [_Reading._] "The anxiety to which The Dean of St. Marvells has so long been a victim will now doubtless be relieved." [_With his hand to his head._] I suppose I shall feel the relief to-morrow. GEORGIANA. What's wrong with the Spire? Nobody sleeps in it? THE DEAN. It _is_ a little out of repair--but hardly sufficiently so to warrant the presumptuous interference of three brewers. Excuse me, I think I'll enjoy the fresh air for a moment. [_He goes to the window and draws back the curtains--a bright red glare is seen in the sky._] Bless me! Look there! GEORGIANA, SALOME, _and_ SHEBA. Oh! what's that?