Dean.
Bring him here when he comes.
John.
Very good, sir.
(John goes into the house. The Dean daintily skins a peach, humming gently, “Every morn I bring thee violets.” After a moment Clare enters from the left, a bunch of pink and white may in her hand. She is obviously in a shocking temper.)
Clare.
Good morning, father.
Dean.
Good morning, Clare. May! Is it for me?