Spreta. Dear Alfred is tired, but perfectly transfigured by his trip. He has never once been away from me all these years. Only think!
Mopsa. That would account for it certainly. And I really think he deserved some little outing. (With an outburst of joy.) Why, I shouldn't wonder if he has positively finished his great big book while he has been away!
Spreta (with a half smile). Shouldn't you? I should. But he has not mentioned it—perhaps he was too tired. And he has been trying to teach that miserable Little Mopsëman tricks ever since he came back. I never did care about dogs myself, and really Alfred is so perfectly absurd about him. Oh, here he is.
Alfred Früyseck enters, followed by Little Mopsëman on his hind legs. Alfred is a weedy, thin-haired man of about thirty-five (or thirty-six) with tinted spectacles and limp side-whiskers. Mopsëman wears a military tunic and a shako very much over one eye, and is shouldering a small toy musket. He is bandy-legged, with a broad black snout and beautiful intelligent eyes. His tail is drooping and has lost all its hair.
Alfred (beaming). Just see what really wonderful progress Little Mopsëman has made already with his drill. Why, my dearest Mopsa! (Goes up and kisses her with marked pleasure.) You have come here the very morning after my return? Fancy that.
Mopsa (gazes fixedly at him). I couldn't keep away. You are looking quite splendid! And how have you got on with your wonderful large book, Alfred? I felt so sure it would go so easily when once you had got away from dear Spreta.
Alfred (shrugging his shoulders). It did—wonderfully easily. The truth is my thick fat book on Canine Idiosyncrasy—h'm—has gone—entirely out of my head. I have been trying thinking for a change. It's easier than writing.
Spreta. Yes, Alfred, I can understand that. And then, when you had never really got farther than the title——!
Alfred (smiling at her). No farther than that. Somehow, none of the Früysecks ever do. My family is a thing apart. And now I have determined to devote my whole time to Little Mopsëman. I am going to foster all the noble germs in him, create a conscious happiness in his mind. (With enthusiasm.) That is my true vocation.
Spreta. You shouldn't have dressed the poor dog up like that. It does make him look so utterly ridiculous!