Salome.
Leg of mutton, Papa!
The Dean.
Thank you. Mutton, hot.
Sheba.
And custards, Papsey.
The Dean.
Thank you, toy-child—custards, cold. And a welcome—warm.
Tarver.
[Looking to Salome.] Well, I—ah—[Salome nods her head to him violently.] That is, certainly, Dean, certainly.