The Dean.
Where shall we stow the dear old chap! I really don’t know.
Georgiana.
Let me see. We don’t want to pitch you out of your loft if we can help it, Gus.
Sir Tristram.
No, no—we won’t do that.
The Dean.
Don’t consider me in this manner. But there’s Sheba’s little cot still standing in the old nursery.
Sir Tristram.
Just the thing for me—the old nursery.