Horace. That is, philanthropy, benevolence, altruism.
Aunt. I am sure you have done your full share to-night.
Horace. It can only be because we never realize how the poor live. In the wise days of old, when men were nearer nature, fast days were instituted, that the Fat might remember the Lean. Now our Fasts are feasts. I wonder what a bonafide all-round forty-eight hour starve, once a year even, would do for our rich friends. Make that a fad, Auntie. You’d revolutionize the world.
Aunt. You are quite right, Horace. We do fall far short of our whole duty. But where are you going to sleep? Will you go to a hotel?
Horace. Perhaps, or in the chair. Don’t bother about me.
Aunt. Kiss me, Horace. Heaven bless you. You have made me very happy to-night. (Exit.)
Horace. The sofa gone. I see nothing for it but to camp on the hearthrug or in the chair. Don’t want that any more. (Turns out lamp.) I wish I could have made my peace with Minnie. But she hasn’t forgotten so readily. She shrank away from me when I caught her. I must just hope for the best. (Settles down in chair.)
(Enter Minnie R.)
Minnie. Light out—then I am too late. He has gone to some hotel. I wonder how the fire is doing? (Goes to window and pulls curtains away, when the morning light falls upon her. Horace, aroused, sees her.)
Horace. I might be dreaming again. Ah, I can read it now! She is my guide—my Marsy—my conscience! Minnie!!