Stop!
Salome.
Papa, why have you tortured us with anxiety?
Sheba.
Where have you been, you naughty man?
The Dean.
Before I answer a question, which, from a child to its parent, partakes of the unpardonable vice of curiosity, I demand an explanation of this disreputable document. [Reading.] “Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, Costumier to the Queen.”
Salome and Sheba.
Oh!
[Sheba sits aghast on the table—Salome distractedly falls on the floor.