(_When the curtain rises, JOHN, the DEAN’S butler and verger of the Cathedral, and ROBERT, the page, are putting finishing touches to the breakfast-table. After a moment the DEAN enters and goes to the table._) DEAN. What a morning! Fragrant! Exquisite! Ha! (_He sniffs the air appreciatively, fixes his eyeglass and beams around him._) A _happy_ Whitsun, John. JOHN. Thank you, sir. Same to you, sir. DEAN. Eh?... Oh, certainly! JOHN. Yes, sir. It’s mornings like this, sir, that one feels a inclination to sing the tedium. DEAN. To sing the—er——? JOHN. The tedium, sir. DEAN. The _Te Deum_! Ah, yes, to be sure! To sing the _Te Deum_. Most appropriate! (_Looks at his watch._) A quarter to ten. JOHN. Yes, sir. It’s highly significant to see so many people at early service this morning, sir. Highly significant. (_ROBERT goes out._) DEAN. Ah, yes!... Is Miss Clare in the garden? JOHN. I believe she is, sir. DEAN. Well, she’ll be here in a minute. I think, as it’s rather late, I had better begin at once. Is this all you’re giving me to-day, John? JOHN. Oh, no, sir. There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops to come. DEAN. Good. Very good! In the meantime these delicious fruits. (_Sits at the table._) JOHN. Yes, sir. If you please, sir, Mr. Cosway’s gardener was here this morning before you came back from church. As far as I could gather he had some message from her ladyship which he refused to leave. I gathered he had instructions to give it to you direct, sir. DEAN. Oh ... ah ... h’m.... Is he here now? JOHN. No, sir; I told him to come back at ten o’clock. He’s gone to the cemetery to visit the grave of his first wife. DEAN. Bring him here when he comes. JOHN. Very good, sir. (_JOHN goes into the house. The DEAN daintily skins a peach, humming gently, “Every morn I bring thee violets.” After a moment CLARE enters from the left, a bunch of pink and white may in her hand. She is obviously in a shocking temper._) CLARE. Good morning, father. DEAN. Good morning, Clare. May! Is it for me? CLARE. You can have it if you like. (_She lays it beside his plate and sits down._) DEAN. Thank you, my dear. Fragrant, delicately-tinted, fresh and dewy as young girls. (_He regards her critically._) But _you_ don’t look quite yourself, my child. CLARE. I? DEAN. A little tired. Perhaps you slept badly? CLARE. I’m as fit as a fiddle, and I slept like a log. DEAN. These peaches are delicious. Try one. CLARE. Aren’t there any cherries yet? DEAN. I’m afraid not. “Fruits in due season,” you know, my dear! CLARE. What about your peaches? DEAN. That’s different, quite different. An early peach cannot be too early. They live in glass houses—— CLARE. (_Significantly._) And don’t throw their stones.... I’ll have a cup of tea. DEAN.