[_She withdraws quickly as THE DEAN enters through the Library carrying a paper in his hand; he has now resumed his normal appearance._ THE DEAN. Home! What sonorous music is in the word! Home, with the secret of my sad misfortune buried in the bosoms of a faithful few. Home, with my family influence intact! Home, with the sceptre of my dignity still tight in my grasp! What is this I have picked up on the stairs? [_Reads with a horrified look, as HATCHAM enters at the window._ HATCHAM. Beg pardon, Sir Tristram. SIR TRISTRAM. What is it? HATCHAM. The chemist has just brought the annal_i_sis. SIR TRISTRAM. Where is he? [_SIR TRISTRAM and GEORGIANA go out at the window, following HATCHAM._ THE DEAN. It is too horrible! [_Reading._] "Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, Costumier to the Queen, Bow Street--Total, Forty pounds, nineteen!" There was a fancy masked ball at Durnstone last night! Salome--Sheba--no, no! SALOME _and_ SHEBA. [_Bounding in and rushing at THE DEAN._] Papa, Papa! SALOME. Our own Papa! SHEBA. Papsey! [_SALOME seizes his hands, SHEBA his coat-tails, and turn him round violently._ SALOME. Our parent returned! SHEBA. Papsey--come back! THE DEAN. Stop! SALOME. Papa, why have you tortured us with anxiety? SHEBA. Where have you been, you naughty man? THE DEAN. Before I answer a question, which, from a child to its parent, partakes of the unpardonable vice of curiosity, I demand an explanation of this disreputable document. [_Reading._] "Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, Costumier to the Queen." SALOME _and_ SHEBA. Oh! [_SHEBA sits aghast on the table--SALOME distractedly falls on the floor._ THE DEAN. I will not follow this legend in all its revolting intricacies. Suffice it, its moral is inculcated by the mournful total. Forty pounds, nineteen! Imps of deceit! [_Looking from one to the other._] There was a ball at Durnstone last night. I know it. SHEBA. Spare us! SALOME. You couldn't have been there, Papa! THE DEAN. There! I trust I was better--that is, otherwise employed. [_Referring to the bill._] Which of my hitherto trusted daughters was a lady--no, I will say a person--of the period of the French Revolution? [_SHEBA points to SALOME._ THE DEAN. And a flower-girl of an unknown epoch. [_SALOME points to SHEBA._] To your respective rooms! [_The girls cling together._] Let your blinds be drawn. At seven porridge will be brought to you. SALOME. Papa! THE DEAN. Go! SHEBA. Papsey! THE DEAN. Go! SALOME. Papa, we, poor girls as we are, can pay the bill. THE DEAN. You cannot--go! SHEBA. Through the kindness of our Aunt---- SALOME. We have won fifty pounds. THE DEAN. What! SHEBA. At the Races! THE DEAN. [_Recoiling._] You too! You too drawn into the vortex! Is there no conscience that is clear--is there no guilessness left in this house, with the possible exception of my own! SHEBA. [_Sobbing._] We always knew a little more than you gave us credit for, Papa. THE DEAN.