The Man.
Ah, but my inspiration seems equally to be suffering from hunger; it cannot rise above pictures of eatables, and for a long while past I have been making my palaces look like pies filled with rich stuffing and my churches like pease-puddings. But I see tears in your eyes! What ails thee, little wife of mine?
His Wife.
It hurts me so much to think that I can do nothing for you!
The Man.
Is that it? Then am I filled with shame to think that I—I, a strong man, talented, educated, and in the prime of life—should sit here grumbling until I have seen my poor little wife—the good fairy of the legends—burst into tears! When a woman weeps it is a man's shame. I am overcome with remorse.
His Wife.
But it is not your fault that people do not appreciate you.
The Man.
Nevertheless I blush to my ears. I feel that I deserve as sound a whipping as ever I received when I was a boy. To think that you too were hungry—as hungry as I am—and that I never noticed it! Oh, what a selfish egoist am I! It was shameful of me!