Georgiana.
[Calling after him.] Tris! You may take your pipe up with you. We smoke all over the Deanery.
The Dean.
[To himself.] I never smoke! Does she?
Georgiana.
[Closes the door, humming a tune merrily.] Tra la, tra la! Now, Mr. Tidd, we’ll toddle. Tra la! tra la! [She stops, looking at The Dean, who is muttering to himself.] Gus, I don’t like your looks, I shall let the Vet see you in the morning. What’s wrong with you?
[The Dean shakes his head mournfully, and sinks on the settee.
Georgiana.
Money?
The Dean.