Horace. Of course not. I have been worthy of her all the time.
Dicey. Your happiness would be everything to me.
Minnie. I think you mean what you say.
Horace. He doesn’t! The beast!
Dicey. Now for a small confession. Ever so long ago I bought a ring, in hope, or, perhaps, in despair. Whenever my chances seemed most faint, fortune most forbidding, I used to take it out of my pocket and look at it.
Horace. Silly ass! Can you imagine a more deplorable waste of time? Whenever a man is down on his luck to take out a ring and look at it? Oh, dear, oh, dear!
Dicey. Am I forgiven?
Minnie. You are silly.
Horace. There! See? She agrees with me!
Dicey. May I put it on?