MESSENGER. You do not understand? It is characteristic of your race that while all that is vile and ignoble is well expressed by your word “Selfishness,” your language does not supply its opposite. In Mars we have a word which means the abandonment of self and the striving for others. It is the great essential virtue, _Otherdom_. HORACE. Thank you. I will bear it in mind. MESSENGER. On your life show it in your acts. HORACE. Oh, I will. May I go home now; it’s very chilly. MESSENGER. Poor thing of Temperature! Your scientists still leave you slaves of the weather. What braggarts are you to dream as yet of civilization! When you can weave water into clothing, spin fire into ribbons, and wear them in the altitudes, you shall speak of some advancement. Your mills of Fashion sigh and hum, but not one of you can outdress a butterfly. Yet the New Times would rush upon you had Otherdom a place with you. That is the substance of which Knowledge is but the shadow playing about it—growing as it grows. You seek to puff out the shadow—it will be shadow merely while Time’s torch burns. Look yonder. Who comes? Speak to her. (_Enter a Woman outcast._) HORACE. No, thank you. I’d rather not. I warn you, if you are seen you will have an awful crowd round you. MESSENGER. I am visible to no eyes but yours. HORACE. That’s clever. How do you do it? MESSENGER. She is turning back. I will bring her to you. HORACE. I wish you wouldn’t. You can’t realize—— MESSENGER. I know more of your world than you do. She is returning. (_The Woman has sauntered on, looked at HORACE, loitered, and gone off R. again. Now she re-enters in similar style._) HORACE. And I’m off! (_Going L._) MESSENGER. Stay! (_HORACE is pulled up._) HORACE. I don’t care to be seen talking to her. MESSENGER. Help her. HORACE. Look here, I’m not invisible, and if I am seen by anybody in this house—— Oh, Lor’! MESSENGER. She comes. Another kind of wreck on the reefs of Self. OUTCAST. You’ll catch cold, dear, if you don’t come indoors. (_HORACE turns his back on her._) Bah, you! Give me a tanner to get a drink with? HORACE. Good night! Good night! MESSENGER. Help her. HORACE. I have no silver left. MESSENGER. Give her gold. Give her gold. HORACE. Gold—there’s none in circulation. Do you know what she is? A vile wanton, a plague of the streets! MESSENGER. No more! Dare man so speak of women? Oh, are you not Joint Guardians of the Future? Give, Horace, give. (_HORACE gives a pound note. She looks at it and becomes half hysterical._) OUTCAST. It’s a pound, sir—a pound note. Did you mean it? HORACE. I had to give you something. OUTCAST. Bless your good heart! It’ll pay the rent, sir. We won’t have to turn out. You don’t know what a lift it is, sir. Thank you, thank you, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, sir. Oh, bless you! (_Exit R._) MESSENGER. Is it not blessed to give?