MR. BOOTH. [_knocked right off his balance._] Do they! Good God! . . I'm invited to dinner the day after to-morrow . . that's Christmas Eve. The hypocrites! EDWARD. [_unmoved._] I shall be there . . that will have given you two days. Will you tell me then? MR. BOOTH. [_protesting violently._] I can't go to dinner . . I can't eat with them. I must be ill. EDWARD. [_with a half smile._] I remember I went to dinner at Chislehurst to tell my father of my decision. MR. BOOTH. [_testily._] What decision? EDWARD. To remain in the firm when I first knew of the difficulties. MR. BOOTH. [_interested._] Was I present? EDWARD. I daresay. MR. BOOTH _stands there, hat, stick and gloves in hand, shaken by this experience, helpless, at his wits' end. He falls into a sort of fretful reverie, speaking half to himself but yet as if he hoped that_ EDWARD, _who is wrapped in his own thoughts, would have the decency to answer, or at least listen, to what he is saying_. MR. BOOTH. Yes, how often I dined with him. Oh, it was monstrous! [_his eyes fall on the clock._] It's nearly lunch time now. Do you know I still can hardly believe all this? I wish I hadn't found it out. If he hadn't died I should never have found it out. I hate to have to be vindictive . . it's not my nature. Indeed I'm sure I'm more grieved than angry. But it isn't as if it were a small sum. And I don't see that one is called upon to forgive crimes . . or why does the Law exist? I feel that this will go near to killing me. I'm too old to have such troubles . . it isn't right. And now if I have to prosecute-- EDWARD. [_at last throwing in a word._] You need not. MR. BOOTH. [_thankful for the provocation._] Don't you attempt to influence me, sir. _He turns to go._ EDWARD. With the money you have left. . . EDWARD _follows him politely_. MR. BOOTH _flings the door open_. MR. BOOTH. Make out a cheque for that at once and send it me. EDWARD. You could . . . MR. BOOTH. [_clapping his hat on, stamping his stick._] I shall do the right thing, sir, never fear. _So he marches off in fine style, having, he thinks, had the last word and all. But_ EDWARD _closing the door after him, mutters_ . . EDWARD. . . Save your soul! . . I'm afraid I was going to say. THE FIFTH ACT