Hannah.
[Opening the oven and taking out a small joint in a baking tin, which she places on the table.] It’s ’unger what makes you feel conscientious!
The Dean.
[Waving her away.] I have done with you!
Hannah.
With me, sir—but not with the joint! You’ll feel wickeder when you’ve had a little nourishment. [He looks hungrily at the dish.] That’s right, Dean, dear—taste my darling Noah’s favorite dish.
The Dean.
[Advancing towards the table.] Oh, Hannah Topping—Hannah Topping! [Clutching the carving-knife despairingly.] I’ll have no more women cooks at the Deanery! This reads me a lesson.
[Sitting and carving with desperation.
Hannah.