Horace. Um—yes—you may as well. (Minnie gets whiskey from table L. and two syphons and jar of biscuits. Aside) Dear little girl. How she does love me! I must get her a ring, or a pin, or a thimble to-morrow. That will make her perfectly happy.
Minnie. I’ll pour you out a glass. Say when.
Horace. Upon my word, you are a perfect treasure!
Minnie. Oh, Horace, do you really mean it? (Pauses in pouring.)
Horace. Of course I mean it—but go on pouring, don’t stop. Now.
Minnie. Don’t sit up too late, dear. You mustn’t work too hard. You’ll strain your eyes.
Horace. No danger, but I shall want some more oil in the lamp. Will you please tell Bella.
Minnie. Certainly. Now promise me you won’t tire yourself. (Kisses him.) Promise.
Horace. All right, dear, I promise.