The Dean sinks into a chair and clasps his forehead.

Blore: (To the Dean) A dear, high-spirited lady. (Peering at the Dean) Aren’t you well, sir?

The Dean: Serpent!

Blore: Meaning me, sir?

The Dean: Lock up; I’ll speak to you in the morning. Lock up. (Blore goes into the library, turns out the lamp there and exits.) What dreadful wave threatens to engulf the Deanery? What has come to us in a few fatal hours? A horse of sporting tendencies contaminating my stables, his equally vicious owner nestling in the nursery — and my own widowed sister, in all probability, smoking a cigarette at her bedroom window with her feet on the window ledge! (Listening) What’s that? I thought I heard footsteps in the garden. I can see nothing — only the old spire standing out against the threatening sky.