Georgiana.
What’s wrong with the Spire? Nobody sleeps in it?
The Dean.
It is a little out of repair—but hardly sufficiently so to warrant the presumptuous interference of three brewers. Excuse me, I think I’ll enjoy the fresh air for a moment. [He goes to the window and draws back the curtains—a bright red glare is seen in the sky.] Bless me! Look there!
Georgiana, Salome, and Sheba.
Oh! what’s that?
The Dean.
It’s a conflagration!
Salome.
[Clinging to Tarver.] Where is it? Are we safe?