[Looking out at window.] Oh, Salome! Papa! Papa!
Tarver.
The Dean?
Darbey.
The Dean!
[They all collect themselves in a fluster. The two girls go to meet their father, who enters at the window with his head bowed and his hands behind his back, in deep thought. The Dean is a portly man of about fifty, with a dignified demeanor, a suave voice and persuasive manner, and a noble brow surmounted by silver-gray hair. Blore follows The Dean, carrying some books, a small bunch of flowers, and an umbrella.
Salome.
Sheba.
Papsey!