The Dean.
I will not follow this legend in all its revolting intricacies. Suffice it, its moral is inculcated by the mournful total. Forty pounds, nineteen! Imps of deceit! [Looking from one to the other.] There was a ball at Durnstone last night. I know it.
Sheba.
Spare us!
Salome.
You couldn’t have been there, Papa!
The Dean.
There! I trust I was better—that is, otherwise employed. [Referring to the bill.] Which of my hitherto trusted daughters was a lady—no, I will say a person—of the period of the French Revolution?
[Sheba points to Salome.
The Dean.