Really, Clare! MRS. O’FARREL. It was my gay youth your father was threatening us with. CLARE. You must have been a dear then, as now!... (_She kisses MRS. O’FARREL impulsively, and goes out past MICHAEL. MICHAEL follows her, turns and comes back with a twig of oak in his hand. He gives it to the DEAN._) MICHAEL. Will you kindly keep the flies off Patricia’s face while I’m away? DEAN. Oh, delighted! Delighted! (_MICHAEL goes out. MRS. O’FARREL looks with amusement at the DEAN, who stands with the twig in his hand glancing quizzically at her and longingly at LADY PATRICIA._) MRS. O’FARREL. When duty and pleasure are combined, there’s no reason to hesitate. I saw a fly settle on Patricia’s chin. DEAN. Happy fly! (_He tiptoes up to PATRICIA and starts fanning her and daintily examining her through his eyeglass. MRS. O’FARREL puts up her lorgnette and regards them with vast amusement. Suddenly a rotten branch falls from above on to the platform._) MRS. O’FARREL. (_Lorgnetting upwards._) How very strange! And not a breath of wind! DEAN. (_Monocling upwards._) Merely a squirrel. I believe I caught sight of its tail. MRS. O’FARREL. I hope the tree’s not rotten. I’m considerably heavier than a squirrel! (_She goes over to the DEAN._) DEAN. Oh, softly, please.... MRS. O’FARREL. (_Laughing._) Softly yourself! DEAN. (_Pointing to PATRICIA._) Did you ever see the like? MRS. O’FARREL. What are you talking about? DEAN. The wonder of this sleeping woman. Was there ever anything more beautiful? MRS. O’FARREL. I thought you knew better than to praise one woman to another. DEAN. Oh, but you are not another! You are Eileen who, ever since I met her in short skirts, have been the fairest of all. MRS. O’FARREL. Fiddle-de-dee! I’m old and ugly! DEAN. No woman can ever be old and ugly—you least of all. MRS. O’FARREL. Charming old humbug! Well, I agree with you—Patricia’s certainly ornamental. DEAN. The pose, my dear lady, the pose! Unstudied grace of abandonment, artless perfection! Perfection as a whole, perfection in detail! Consider the right hand: so blissfully burdened. Consider the left: still clasping some poem only less exquisite than itself. The eyelids are faintly blue—surely with the sky of a delicate dream. From head to foot every curve is a lyric—from head—I should like to see her foot. (_He looks sadly at her covered feet._) MRS. O’FARREL. Haven’t you the courage? DEAN. I beg your pardon? MRS. O’FARREL. To look at it. DEAN. Mrs. O’Farrel! MRS. O’FARREL. Well, if I admired her feet as much as you do, I shouldn’t hesitate. DEAN. But supposing she woke and found me—er—er— MRS. O’FARREL. Arranging her skirt?... My dear man, I know Patricia; she would gladly show you several inches of her ankle. DEAN.