Oh!
Blore.
I beg your pardon, sir, shall I go the rounds, sir?
[The Dean gives Blore a fierce look, but Blore beams sweetly.
Georgiana.
Blore!
Blore.
Georgiana.
Breakfast at nine, sharp. And pack a hamper with a cold chicken, some French rolls, and two bottles of Heidsieck—label it “George Tidd,” and send it on to the Hill. I’ll stand the racket. Goodnight.