Horace. If you’d lived in the house as long as I have with Aunt——
Messenger. Silence! Too lazy to call a cab.
Horace. You don’t make any allowance.
Messenger. You deserve none. Again, there was that poor unfortunate who in a weak moment confided to you his life’s tragedy.
Horace. You can’t make me responsible for that dirty tramp’s condition.
Messenger. You might have saved him. You would have been blessed a thousandfold if you had.
Horace. How do you mean?
Messenger. In what a hideous Pretence you live. There, before you, stood a man of genius. You drove him out to die. An Inventor perishing in the hey-day of Invention-Worship.
Horace. Do you really think that fellow’s ideas are good for anything?
Messenger. You a man of science! You know nothing at all. There is more in his little finger than your whole body.