[With dignity.] I have been a widower for fifteen years.
Sir Tristram.
Oh lor’! awfully sorry—can’t be helped though, can it? [Seizing The Dean’s hand and squeezing it.] Forgive me, old chap.
The Dean.
[Withdrawing his hand with pain.] O-o-oh!
Sir Tristram.
I’ve re-opened an old wound—damned stupid of me!
The Dean.
Hush, Mardon! Please!
Sir Tristram.