ALFRED. Now it's open and pleasant, with plenty of air and sunlight, and I hear they are going to lay out a street——
MATHILDA. Won't you have to move then?
ALFRED. Yes, all of us will have to move, and that's what I like—I like new things—I should like to emigrate——
MATHILDA. Mercy, no! Do you know, our pigeons were nesting on the roof. And when the fire broke out last night they kept circling around the place at first, but when the roof fell in they plunged right into the flames—They couldn't part from their old home!
ALFRED. But we must get out of here—must! My father says that the soil has been sucked dry.
MATHILDA. I heard that the cinders left by the fire were to be spread over the ground in order to improve the soil.
ALFRED. You mean the ashes?
MATHILDA. Yes; they say it's good to sow in the ashes.
ALFRED. Better still on virgin soil.
MATHILDA. But your father is ruined?