I!

The Man.

Yes. And see how people are bowing down to us, and whispering about us, and pointing us out with their fingers. Here is a city father shedding tears of joy as he exclaims, "Happy is our town to have been the birthplace of such children!" Here, too, a certain young man turns pale with emotion as he gazes upon his handiwork; for fortune has smiled upon him at last, and he has built a City Hall that is the pride of all the land.

His Wife.

Yes, even as you are my pride. And even as I have placed this wreath of oak-leaves upon your head, so will the day come when you are accorded one of laurels.

The Man.

But look again. Here are other magnates of my native town advancing to pay me their respects. They make low bows—yes, to the very ground—and say, "Our town rejoices at having been accorded the honour of——"

His Wife.

Oh!

The Man.

What is it?

His Wife.

I have found a bottle of milk I

The Man.

Surely not?

His Wife.

And bread!—beautiful spiced bread!—and a cigar!

The Man.

Impossible! You must be joking. Or you must have mistaken some of the damp from these accursed walls for milk.

His Wife.

No, no. Indeed I have not.

The Man.

And a cigar! Cigars do not grow on windowsills. They cost money, and have to be bought in shops. What you see is only a piece of black twig, or something of the kind.

His Wife.

But look for yourself. I am sure it must be the neighbours who have left these things for us.

The Man.

The neighbours? Well, of a truth they may have been the instruments, but the work has been the work of God himself. And even if it were devils who have brought the things here, it should not prevent you from coming and sitting on my knee, little wife.

[The Man's Wife seats herself upon his knee, and they proceed to eat; she breaking off little bits of bread, and placing them between his lips, while he feeds her with milk out of the bottle.]

The Man.

I believe it is cream, it looks so good.

His Wife.

No, it is milk. You must bite your bread more carefully, or you will choke.

The Man.

No, no, I shall not. Let me have some more of the crust—of that nice brown crust.

His Wife.

But I am sure you will choke before you have finished.

The Man.

No, no. See how easily I swallow.

His Wife.

You are making the milk run down my neck! How dreadfully it tickles!

The Man.

Then let me lick it up. Not a drop of it ought to be wasted.

His Wife.

How thrifty you are growing!

The Man.

Be ready. Now, then! Quick!—Ah, everything good comes to an end too soon. I believe that this bottle must have got a false bottom to it, to make it look deeper. What rascally fellows those bottlemakers are!

[The Man lights the cigar, and sinks back in the attitude of a blissfully tired man, while his wife ties her hair with the new riband, and goes to look at herself in the darkness of the window-panes.]

The Man.

This cigar must have cost a fortune, it is so mellow and strong. In future I mean always to smoke this brand of cigars.

His Wife.

But do you not see how nice I look?

The Man.

Yes, I see. I see the new riband, and I see, too, that you wish me to kiss your pretty little neck.

His Wife.

But I will not allow it, sir. You are getting much too free. Puff away at your cigar if you wish, but my neck——

The Man.

Eh what? Is it not mine too? Devil take me if I do not assert my proprietorship!

[She pretends to dart away, but he pursues and kisses her.]

The Man.

There! I have asserted my rights. And now, little wifie, you must dance. Imagine this to be a splendid, a supernaturally beautiful palace.

His Wife.

Very well. I have imagined it.

The Man.

And that you are the queen of the ball.

His Wife.

I am ready.

The Man.

And that counts, marquises, and city magnates keep requesting the honour of your hand, but you persistently refuse them, and choose, instead, a man like—like—oh, a man in a beautiful gala dress, a real live prince. What did you say?

His Wife.

That I do not like princes.

The Man.

Good gracious! Whom do you like, then?

His Wife.

I like architects of genius.

The Man.

Very well, then. Imagine such a man to have asked you to dance with him (for I suppose you would not care to have the empty air for a partner, would you?).

His Wife.

I have imagined him.

The Man.

Good! Imagine, too, A marvellous orchestra, with a Turkish drum beating pom, pom, pom.

[He begins to thump the table with his fist]

His Wife.

But, my dearest one, it is only in a circus that they beat a drum like that, to attract the people—not in a palace.

The Man.

What a fool I am! Very well, then. Never mind that part. Let us begin again. Imagine a fiddle pouring out its soul in melody, and a flute tootling tenderly, and a double-bass droning like a beetle. Thus:—

[The Man hums a tune as he sits crowned with his chaplet of oak-leaves. The tune is the same as is played during Act III, on the occasion of the grand, ball given by the Man. His wife dances to his humming, looking comely and graceful as she does so.]

The Man.

Ah, my little pet goat!

His Wife.

Nay, I am' the queen of the ball.

[The tune and the dance grow merrier and merrier, until the Man rises to his feet, and dancing lightly where he stands, takes his wife round the waist, and dances with her—his chaplet slipping down to one side as he does so. Meanwhile the Being in Grey looks on imperturbably—the candle in his hand continuing to burn steadily with a clear light.]