I said it first. MRS. O’FARREL. And I’m a woman. DEAN. True. To begin with I’ve just received these two notes. (_Hands her the letters._) MRS. O’FARREL. (_Opening a letter._) From Patricia!... Now I really wonder whether this terribly agitated handwriting is put on. DEAN. Be generous, Eileen! MRS. O’FARREL. What on earth does the woman mean by scrawling “Sunrise” on the top of the page? DEAN. Presumably that was when she wrote the letter. MRS. O’FARREL. Oh, I see! She wants you to believe she paced her room in wakeful agony all night. (_Reads._) “Sunrise. I have need of confession. I will call at the Deanery before morning service—PATRICIA COSWAY.” Confession! Evidently she means to enjoy herself!... (_Opens the other note and reads._) “DEAR DEAN,—I am calling on you before morning service to-day. I trust, in spite of all that has happened, you will not refuse to receive me—MICHAEL COSWAY.” Very interesting. What do you intend to do? DEAN. Honestly, I haven’t made up my mind yet. MRS. O’FARREL. I protest against your giving Patricia and yourself the luxury of private confession. She owes _me_ her precious confession, not _you_. Have her out here, and we’ll trounce her together. DEAN. Poor woman! MRS. O’FARREL. Fiddle-de-dee! She’s having the time of her life. I wonder whether they’ve confessed to each other. DEAN. I shouldn’t think so—but I mean that they shall. MRS. O’FARREL. So do I.... Well, Dean, I’ve had it out with my son. DEAN. Ah.... MRS. O’FARREL. Driving home last night I talked about the likelihood of a thunderstorm, Crême de Menthe and lawn-tennis, and made him thoroughly uncomfortable. DEAN. Then you said nothing about—— MRS. O’FARREL. Not a word. And we both went to bed. He came down to breakfast in a shocking temper. I cheerfully exhausted two tedious subjects: the House of Lords and domestic servants. Suddenly he lost his manners—cut me short—and plunged into the sad story of Patricia and himself.... Now, I’d had time to think the matter over! I treated the whole thing as a youthful peccadillo and mildly suggested he had better put an end to it. The poor dear boy was completely floored. I’m sure he’d prepared himself against a regular tornado. He simply sat there and stared at me.... Then abruptly I turned the conversation on to your daughter. DEAN. Eh? MRS. O’FARREL. I described her conduct as scandalous, herself as a hussy, and wound up with a burst of gratitude that he’d been Patricia’s victim instead of hers. DEAN. Most remarkable! And what did the young man say? MRS. O’FARREL. He dazzled me with an amazing flare-up. Exhausted his vocabulary on my injustice and Clare’s perfections, and stormed out of the room, leaving me with tingling ears. DEAN. And now? MRS. O’FARREL. Presumably he’s gone in search of this maligned young woman. My blessings attend on him!... Well, Dean, I’m a brilliant and original tactician, what? DEAN. Brilliant, certainly—original, no! MRS. O’FARREL.