Clare.
Tchah!
(They stand miserably silent, looking in opposite directions. The nightingale starts singing, and sings through the next scene. The voices of the Dean and Mrs. O’Farrel come up from beneath.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, I find it chilly, Dean—distinctly chilly.
Dean.
For Whitsuntide, dear lady—surely not. True, Whitsuntide is very late this year....
(Mrs. O’Farrel enters, followed by the Dean, up the central ladder.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Why, here’s the child! All alone, my dear? Whatever have you been doing to your hair?