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So do I. But she's not my idea of a weary fragment or a chastened widow.
THE DEAN.
My dear Georgiana, I rejoice that you meet me in this affectionate spirit, and when--pardon me--when you have a little caught the _tone_ of the Deanery----
GEORGIANA.
Oh, I'll catch it; if I don't the Deanery will a little catch _my_ tone--the same thing.
[_SHEBA laughs._
THE DEAN.
[_Reprovingly._] Toy-child!
GEORGIANA.
Trust George Tidd for setting things quite square in a palace or a puddle.
THE DEAN.
George Tidd! Who is George Tidd?
GEORGIANA.
I am George Tidd--that was my racing name. Ask after George Tidd at Newmarket--they'll tell you all about me. My colors were crimson and black diamonds. There you are.
[_Producing her pocket-handkerchief, which is crimson and black._
THE DEAN.
Dear me! Very interesting! Georgiana, my dear. One moment, children.
[_The girls go into the Library._
THE DEAN.
[_Tapping the handkerchief._] I understand distinctly from your letter that all this is finally abandoned?
GEORGIANA.
Worse luck! They'll never see my colors at the post again!
THE DEAN.
And the contemplation of sport generally as a mental distraction----?
GEORGIANA.
Oh, yes--I dare say you'll manage to wean me from that, too, in time.
THE DEAN.
In time! Well, but--Georgiana!
[_The gate bell is heard again, the girls re-enter._
GEORGIANA.
There's a visitor. I'll tootle upstairs and have a groom down. [_To SALOME and SHEBA._] Make the running, girls. At what time do we feed, Augustin?
THE DEAN.
There is luncheon at one o'clock.
GEORGIANA.
Right. The air here is so fresh I sha'n't be sorry to get my nose-bag on.
[_She stalks out, accompanied by the girls._
THE DEAN.
My sister, Georgiana--my widowed sister, Georgiana. Dear me, I am quite disturbed. Surely, surely the serene atmosphere of the Deanery will work a change. It must! It must! If not, what a grave mistake I have made. Good gracious! No, no, I won't think of it! Still, it is a little unfortunate that poor Georgiana should arrive here on the very eve of these terrible races at St. Marvells.
_BLORE enters with a card._
THE DEAN.
Who is it, Blore? [_Reading the card._] "Sir Tristram Mardon." Dear, dear! Certainly, Blore, certainly. [_BLORE goes out._] Mardon--why, Mardon and I haven't met since Oxford.
[_BLORE re-enters, showing in SIR TRISTRAM MARDON, a well-preserved man of about fifty, with a ruddy face and jovial manner, the type of the thorough English sporting gentleman. BLORE goes out._
SIR TRISTRAM.
Hullo, Jedd, how are you?
THE DEAN.
My dear Mardon--are we boys again?
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Boisterously._] Of course we are! Boys again!
[_He hits THE DEAN violently in the chest._
THE DEAN.
