[_To SHEBA._] Some of us army men can slave too. Tarver's queer livah has thrown all the arrangements for the Fancy Ball on my shoulders. [_SALOME and TARVER re-enter._] Look at him--that's when he's enjoying life! TARVER. [_Laughing convulsively._] Ha! ha! ha! ho! he! he! Good, eh, Miss Jedd? SALOME. But suppose dear Papa should hear us crunching down the gravel path! TARVER. Oh! [_He sinks on to the settee with a vacant stare, his arms hanging helplessly._ DARBEY. [_To SHEBA._] There--now his career is a burden to him! SHEBA. Oh! SALOME. Would you like a glass of water, Major Tarver? TARVER. [_Taking SALOME'S hand._] Thank you, dear Miss Jedd, with the least suggestion of cayenne pepper in it. SHEBA. [_Looking out at window._] Oh, Salome! Papa! Papa! TARVER. The Dean? DARBEY. The Dean! [_They all collect themselves in a fluster. The two girls go to meet their father, who enters at the window with his head bowed and his hands behind his back, in deep thought. THE DEAN is a portly man of about fifty, with a dignified demeanor, a suave voice and persuasive manner, and a noble brow surmounted by silver-gray hair. BLORE follows THE DEAN, carrying some books, a small bunch of flowers, and an umbrella._ SALOME. [_Tenderly._] Papa! SHEBA. Papsey! [_THE DEAN rouses himself, discovers his children and removes his hat._ THE DEAN. [_To SALOME._] Salome! [_To SHEBA._] My toy-child! [_He draws the girls to him and embraces them, then sees TARVER and DARBEY._] Dear me! Strangers! TARVER _and_ Darbey. [_Coughing uncomfortably._] H'm! SALOME. [_Reproachfully, taking his hat from him._] Papa! Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey have ridden over from Durnstone to ask how your cold is. [_SHEBA takes the gold-rimmed pince-nez which hangs upon THE DEAN'S waistcoat and places it before his eyes._ THE DEAN. Dear me! Major! Mr. Garvey. SHEBA. Mr. Darbey! THE DEAN. Darbey! How good of you! [_With his girls still embracing him he extends a hand to each of the men._] My cold is better. [_BLORE goes out through the Library._] Major--Mr. Garvey--these inquiries strike me as being so kind that I insist--no, no, I _beg_ that you will share our simple dinner with us to-night at six o'clock! TARVER. [_Disconcerted._] Oh! DARBEY. H'm! THE DEAN. Let me see--Tuesday night is---- SALOME. Leg of mutton, Papa! THE DEAN. Thank you. Mutton, hot. SHEBA. And custards, Papsey. THE DEAN. Thank you, toy-child--custards, cold. And a welcome--warm. TARVER. [_Looking to SALOME._] Well, I--ah--[_SALOME nods her head to him violently._] That is, certainly, Dean, certainly. DARBEY. Delighted, my dear Dean--delighted! [_THE DEAN gives DARBEY a severe look, and with an important cough walks into the Library. The men and the girls speak in undertones._ TARVER. [_Depressed._] Now, what will happen to-night? SALOME.