Blore enters with a card.
The Dean.
Who is it, Blore? [Reading the card.] “Sir Tristram Mardon.” Dear, dear! Certainly, Blore, certainly. [Blore goes out.] Mardon—why, Mardon and I haven’t met since Oxford.
[Blore re-enters, showing in Sir Tristram Mardon, a well-preserved man of about fifty, with a ruddy face and jovial manner, the type of the thorough English sporting gentleman. Blore goes out.
Sir Tristram.
Hullo, Jedd, how are you?
The Dean.
My dear Mardon—are we boys again?
Sir Tristram.
[Boisterously.] Of course we are! Boys again!