My dears—a mournful, miserable history! [With his head bent he walks to a chair, and holds out his hands to the girls, who go to him and kneel at his feet.] When you were infants your Aunt Georgiana married an individual whose existence I felt it my sad duty never to recognize.
Salome.
A bad man?
The Dean.
He died ten years ago, and, therefore, we will say a misguided man. He was a person who bred horses to run in races for amusement combined with profit. He was also what is called a Gentleman Jockey, and it was your aunt’s wifely boast that if ever he vexed her she could take a stone off his weight in half an hour. In due course his neck was dislocated.
Sheba.
By Aunt?
The Dean.
Hush, child, no! You will be little wiser when I tell you he came a cropper!
Salome.