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Papsey will listen to our little wants!
[_They force him into a chair. SALOME sits on the ground embracing his legs, SHEBA lies on the top of the table._
THE DEAN.
Oh dear, oh dear! Your wants are very little ones. What are they, Salome? What are they, toy-child?
SALOME.
Papa! Have you any spare cash?
THE DEAN.
Spare cash! Playful Salome!
SHEBA.
_L--s--d,_ Papsey, or _L--s,_ Papsey, and never mind the--_d._
THE DEAN.
Ha! ha! I am glad, really glad, children, that you have broken through a reserve which has existed on this point for at least a fortnight--and babbled for money.
SHEBA _and_ SALOME.
[_Laughing with delight._] Ha! ha!
THE DEAN.
It gives me the opportunity of meeting your demands with candor.
Children, I have love for you, solicitude for you, but--I have no spare cash for anybody.
[_He rises and walks gloomily across to the piano, on the top of which he commences to arrange his bills. In horror SALOME scrambles up from the floor, and SHEBA wriggles off the table. Simultaneously they drop on to the same chair and huddle together._
SALOME.
[_To herself._] Lost!
SHEBA.
[_To herself._] Done for!
THE DEAN.
And now you have so cheerily opened the subject, let me tell you with equal good humor [_emphatically flourishing the bills_] that this sort of thing must be put a stop to. Your dressmaker's bill is shocking; your milliner gives an a.n.a.lytical record of the feverish beatings of the hot pulse of fashion; your general draper blows a rancorous blast which would bring dismay to the stoutest heart. Let me for once peal out a deep paternal ba.s.s to your childish treble and say emphatically--I've had enough of it!
[_He paces up and down. The two girls utter a loud yell of grief._
SHEBA.
[_Through her tears._] We've been brought up as young ladies--that can't be done for nothing!
SALOME.
Sheba's small, but she cuts into a lot of material.
THE DEAN.
My girls, it is such unbosomings as this which preserve the domestic unison of a family. Weep, howl, but listen. The total of these weeds which spring up in the beautiful garden of paternity is a hundred and fifty-six, eighteen, three. Now, all the money I can immediately command is considerably under five hundred pounds.
SALOME.
Oh, Papa!
SHEBA.
Oh! what a lot!
THE DEAN.
Hush! But read, Salome, read aloud this paragraph in "The Times" of yesterday. There, my child.
[_He hands a copy of "The Times" to SALOME with his finger upon a paragraph._
SALOME.
[_Reading._] "A Munificent Offer. Dr. Jedd, the Dean of St. Marvells, whose anxiety for the preservation of the Minister Spire threatens to undermine his health, has subscribed the munificent sum of one thousand pounds to the Restoration Fund." [_Indignantly._] Oh!
SHEBA.
Oh! and we gasping for clothing!
THE DEAN.
Read on, my child.
SALOME.
[_Reading._] "On condition that seven other donors come forward, each with the like sum."
SALOME.
And will they?
THE DEAN.
[_Anxiously._] My darling, times are bad, but one never knows.
SHEBA.
