Sir Tristram.
Your sister?
Georgiana.
Yes, I’ve been running a bit dark, Mardon, but that stout, well-seasoned animal over there and this skittish creature come of the same stock and were foaled in the same stable. [Pointing to Salome and Sheba.] There are a couple of yearlings here, you don’t know. My nieces—Salome and Sheba.
Sir Tristram.
[Bowing.] How do you do? [Heartily taking Georgiana’s hand again.] Well, I don’t care whose sister you are, but I’m jolly glad to see you, George, my boy.
Georgiana.
Gracious, Tris, don’t squeeze my hand so!
The Dean.
[In horror.] Salome, Sheba, children! I must speak to you. Excuse me, Mardon. [To himself.] Oh, what shall I do with my widowed sister?