She. Oh, that’s father. He’s digging a grave for you. It’s become a sort of habit with him.
He. Wilt thou not tell him it is not required?
She (through the window). Father, we shan’t want it this time. Sorry.
He. I thank thee.
She (irritable). Oh, do stop saying “thee.” And will you please take these horrible ashes and throw them away at once? Really, I can hardly breathe.
He. Nay, my love. They are our charm against danger. Art not thou—aren’t you, I mean—grateful?
She. Yes, of course. But they’ve done the trick by now. We can’t spend our whole married life in this atmosphere.
He. But indeed we must. The witch enjoined me that, unless they were preserved, I should perish, even as those before me.
She. Well, I’m extremely sorry, but I really can’t stand this. (Through the window.) Father, you might bury this, will you? (throws down the ashes). Thank you. Oh, and don’t fill up the hole yet. We may want it after all.
CURTAIN