Horace. Not I. I am stopping at home.
Aunt. You know what I mean. With Minnie.
Horace. Ah, she’s a dear little girl.
Aunt. She’s one in a thousand.
Horace. She is.
Aunt. She’s much too good for you.
Horace. I don’t know about that. She’s quite good enough.
Aunt. You are perfectly detestable.
Horace. Think so?
Aunt. Yes, and you’re growing worse every day. (Goes L.) You are simply wrapped up in selfishness, and egotism, and conceit.