I will prove that in the Deanery Stables the common laws of hospitality have never been transgressed. Give me the bowl! [Georgiana hands The Dean the basin from the table.] A simple remedy for a chill.
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Strychnine—sixteen grains!
The Dean.
I, myself, am suffering from the exposure of last night. [Taking the remaining bolus and opening his mouth.] Observe me!
Blore.
[Rushing forward, snatching the basin from The Dean and sinking on to his knees.] No, no! Don’t, don’t! You wouldn’t ’ang the holdest servant in the Deanery.
The Dean.
Blore!
Blore.