MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry.
(They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs again.)
MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves you.
MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me.
MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully). Isabel?
MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she comes after Harold?
MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers). A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I—dear me, have we got nine already?
MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly). Darling, say you don't think it's too many.
MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it isn't as if they were real children.
MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly). Henry! How can you say they are not real?