Mr. Beetle. What is it, old woman?
Mrs. Beetle. Ha, ha, ha!
Mr. Beetle. Ha, ha, ha! Wife!
Mrs. Beetle. What is it, old man?
Mr. Beetle. Ha, ha! It’s fine to own something—property—the dream of your life, the fruit of your labours.
Mrs. Beetle. Ha, ha, ha!
Mr. Beetle. I’m off my head with joy—I’m going balmy.
Mrs. Beetle. Why?
Mr. Beetle. With worry. Now we’ve got our little pile that we’ve so looked forward to, we’ve got to work and work and work to make another one.
Mrs. Beetle. Why another one?