(Horace counts his money.)
Horace. Fifty, twenty and ten.
Messenger. Give them to her.
Horace. I don’t mind giving her the tenner.
Messenger. Give them all. She will need them.
Horace. Suppose I give her the fifty?
Messenger. Give them all.
Horace. All? Mayn’t I keep the tenner? Just the tenner in case you get thirsty.
Messenger. You stone! Give all, or lie mangled beside him!
Horace. Don’t! Don’t do it! I will! I will! (To Polly) Here, young woman, is a trifle, a mere trifle to help you. (Gives all the notes, savagely thrusting them into her hands, and turns away.)