beatrice. My dear Edward . . I understand you've been robbing your rich clients for the benefit of the poor ones?
alice. [who hasn't missed a word.] That's true.
edward. [gently.] Well . . we're all a bit in debt to the poor, aren't we?
beatrice. Quite so. And you don't possess and your father didn't possess that innate sense of the sacredness of property . . . [she enjoys that phrase.] which alone can make a truly honest man. Nor did the man possess it who picked my pocket last Friday week . . nor does the tax-gatherer . . . nor do I. Your father's freedom from prejudice was tempered by a taste for Power and Display. Yours is by Charity. But that's all the difference I'll admit between you. Robbery! . . it's a beautiful word.
edward. [a little pained by as much of this as he takes to be serious.] I think he might have told me the truth.
beatrice. Perhaps he didn't know it! Would you have believed him?
edward. Perhaps not. But I loved him.
beatrice looks again at the gentle, earnest face.
beatrice. After as well as before?
edward. Yes. And not from mere force of habit either.