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[_Laying the notes on the table._] I found these, sir, on your dressing-table--they're bank-notes, sir.
THE DEAN.
[_Taking the notes._] Thank you. I placed them there to be sent to the Bank to-morrow. [_Counting the notes._] Ten--ten--twenty--five--five, fifty. Fifty pounds! The very sum Georgiana urged me to--oh! [_To BLORE, waving him away._] Leave me--go to bed--go to bed--go to bed!
[_BLORE is going._] Blore!
BLORE.
Sir?
THE DEAN.
What made you tempt me with these at such a moment?
BLORE.
Temp' you, sir! The window was hopen, and I feared they might blow away.
THE DEAN.
[_Catching him by the coat collar._] Man, what were you doing at St.
Marvells Races last summer?
BLORE.
[_With a cry, falling on his knees._] Oh, sir! Oh, sir! I knew that 'igh-sperited lady would bring grief and sorrow to the peaceful, 'appy Deanery! Oh, sir, I _'ave_ done a little on my hown account from time to time on the 'ill, halso hon commission for the kitchen!
THE DEAN.
I knew it--I knew it!
BLORE.
Oh, sir, you are a old gentleman--turn a charitable 'art to the Races!
It's a wicious inst.i.tution what spends more ready money in St.
Marvells than us good people do in a year.
THE DEAN.
Get up, Blore--get up. Oh, Edward Blore, Edward Blore, what weak creatures we are!
BLORE.
We are, sir--we are--'specially when we've got a tip, sir. Think of the temptation of a tip, sir.
THE DEAN.
I do, Blore--I do.
BLORE.
I confess heverything, sir. Bonny Betsy's bound for to win the 'andicap.
THE DEAN.
No, no--she isn't.
BLORE.
She is, sir.
THE DEAN.
I know better; she can never get down the hill with those legs of hers.
BLORE.
She can, sir--what's to beat her?
THE DEAN.
The horse in my stable--Dandy d.i.c.k!
BLORE.
Dandy d.i.c.k! That old bit of ma'ogany, sir. They're layin' ten to one against him.
THE DEAN.
[_With hysterical eagerness._] Are they? I'll take it! I'll take it!
BLORE.
Lord love you, sir--fur how much?
THE DEAN.
Fifty! There's the money. [_Impulsively he crams the notes into BLORE'S hand and then recoils in horror._] Oh!
[_Sinks into a chair with a groan._
BLORE.
[_In a whisper._] Lor', who'd 'ave thought the Dean was such a ardent sportsman at 'art? He dursn't give me my notice after this. [_To THE DEAN._] Of course it's understood, sir, that we keep our little weaknesses dark. Houtwardly, sir, we remain respectable, and, I 'ope, respected. [_Putting the notes into his pocket._] I wish you good-night, sir. [_He walks to the door. THE DEAN makes an effort to recall him but fails._] And that old man 'as been my pattern and example for years and years! Oh, Edward Blore, your hidol is shattered! [_Turning to THE DEAN._] Good-night, sir. May your dreams be calm and 'appy, and may you have a good run for your money!
[_BLORE goes out--THE DEAN gradually recovers his self-possession._
THE DEAN.
