Alfred (coldly and bitterly). You see that I have really nothing to fill up my life with, when my own wife refuses to listen to my anecdotes! Now Mopsa always—— What is all that barking down there in the town?
Spreta (with an outburst). Oh, you'll see, they've found Little Mopsëman!
Alfred. Not they. He'll never be found. Those handbills of yours were a mere waste of money. It is only the curs fighting in the street—as usual.
Spreta (slowly, and with resolution). Only that, Alfred. And do you know what I mean to do, as soon as you are away solitudinising up there in the mountain hotels? I will go down and bring all those poor neglected dogs home with me.
Alfred (uneasily). What—the whole lot of them, Spreta? (Shocked.) In our Little Mopsëman's place!
Spreta (firmly and decidedly). Every one. To fill Little Mopsëman's place. They shall dig up his bones, lie on his mat, take it in turns to sleep in his basket. I will try to—h'm—lighten and ennoble their lot in life.
Alfred (with growing uneasiness). When you simply detest all dogs! I don't know anyone less fitted than you to manage a Dog's Home. I really don't!
Spreta. I must fill the void in my life somehow—if you go and leave me. And I must educate myself to understand dogs better, that's all.
Alfred. Yes, that you would have to do. (As if struck with an idea.) Before you begin. Suppose I take up my big fat book on Canine Idiosyncrasy once more, eh? That would teach you how to purify and ennoble every poodle really scientifically, you know. Only you must promise to wait till I've got it done.
Spreta (with a melancholy smile). I am in no hurry Alfred. Only to write that you would have to remain at home.