The Dean.
[With hysterical eagerness.] Are they? I’ll take it! I’ll take it!
Blore.
Lord love you, sir—fur how much?
The Dean.
Fifty! There’s the money. [Impulsively he crams the notes into Blore’s hand and then recoils in horror.] Oh!
[Sinks into a chair with a groan.
Blore.
[In a whisper.] Lor’, who’d ’ave thought the Dean was such a ardent sportsman at ’art? He dursn’t give me my notice after this. [To The Dean.] Of course it’s understood, sir, that we keep our little weaknesses dark. Houtwardly, sir, we remain respectable, and, I ’ope, respected. [Putting the notes into his pocket.] I wish you good-night, sir. [He walks to the door. The Dean makes an effort to recall him but fails.] And that old man ’as been my pattern and example for years and years! Oh, Edward Blore, your hidol is shattered! [Turning to The Dean.] Good-night, sir. May your dreams be calm and ’appy, and may you have a good run for your money!
[Blore goes out—The Dean gradually recovers his self-possession.