Dicey. Minnie!
Minnie. I wonder what has become of Horace?
Dicey. (As she turns away on pretence of turning the lamp up, aside) Always Horace. Heigho! I must really be going, and thank you so much for all the pleasure—and pain you have given me. (Re-enter Aunt R.)
Aunt. He is not in his room. I hammered on his door till my arm ached, and then thinking he was keeping up his joke, I lit a match and marched in. His bed wasn’t crumpled, even. Must you go?
Dicey. I must, indeed; the richer by a cigar, however—(Shakes hands with Aunt and turns to Minnie)—the poorer by a heart! Good night.
Aunt. I’ll see you out myself. (Exit with Dicey R.)
Minnie. I like him, but I don’t love him. How strange it is. He would do anything for me, while—well—I don’t suppose he—(Meaning Horace)—would, unless a mountain fell at his feet to start him into action. (Enter Aunt.)
Aunt. A very nice young man, but hardly correct of him to come in at such an hour.
Minnie. Oh, Auntie, we made him. But where can Horace be, then? His coat has gone. (Pointing to chair below fireplace where it had been. Aunt notices closet open and empty.)