Tarver.
[To The Dean.] We waited to say—good-morning.
The Dean.
[Taking his hand, abstractedly.] How kind! Good-morning!
Darbey.
Six o’clock sharp, Dean?
The Dean.
At six, punctually. Salome, represent me by escorting these gentlemen to the gate. [Salome, Tarver, and Darbey go out. Sheba is following slyly when The Dean looks up from his papers.] Sheba!
Sheba.
Papsey!