Don’t stint yourself, sir. You can’t blow that whistle on an empty frame. [The Dean begins to eat.] Don’t my cooking carry you back, sir? Oh, say it do!
The Dean.
Ah, if every mouthful would carry me back one little hour I would finish this joint!
[Noah Topping, unperceived by Hannah and The Dean, climbs in by the window, his eyes bolting with rage—he glares round the room, taking in everything at a glance.
Noah.
[Under his breath.] My man o’ mystery—a waited on by my nooly made wife—a heating o’ my favorite meal.
[Touching Hannah on the arm, she turns and faces him, speechless with fright.
The Dean.
[Still eating.] If my mind were calmer this would be an all-sufficient repast. [Hannah tries to speak, then clasps her hands and sinks on her knees to Noah.] Hannah, a little plain cold water in a simple tumbler, please.
Noah.