Fred. Oh, I have. I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner.
Mrs. M. Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner.
Sarah. A much better one than he could have served up in his old dingy chambers.
Fred. Well, I'm very glad to hear it, because I haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do you say, Topper?
Topper. A bachelor like myself is a wretched outcast, and has no right to express an opinion on such an important subject.
Mrs. M. Do go on, Fred. He never finishes what he begins to say. He is such a ridiculous fellow.
Fred. I was only going to say, that the consequence of our uncle taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he finds in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it—I defy him—if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying, Uncle Scrooge, I wish you A Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year! If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something; and I think I shook him yesterday.—Come, let us have some music. Here, Thomas, clear away.
[All rise and go to the piano. Waiter clears table during the singing of a Christmas carol or any selected piece.]
Fred. We must not devote the whole evening to music. Suppose we have a game?