laugh at them! To succeed in life one needs two things—influence and a lucky star: and he has neither. So he goes wandering about, ever looking for a chance—any sort of a chance—to find work to do. It may even be that, like myself, he searches the roadways for lost purses, for he is but a boy in mind as well as in years. Of course, some day we shall succeed: but the question is, When will that be? Meanwhile life is very hard for us; for although, when we married, we had a little money, it soon disappeared, what with too many visits to the theatre and too much eating of bonbons. He is still sanguine of success, but I—well, sometimes I seem to lose all hope, and give way to tears when quite alone. Even now my heart is aching to think that here is he coming home—only to find nothing for him but my poor kisses!

[She rises from her chair, and goes down upon her knees.]

O Lord God, be unto us a kind and pitying Father. Thou hast so much to give of what we need—of bread, of work, of money. Thy earth is so rich, it brings forth so much fruit and corn in its fields—it covers its meadows with so many flowers, it yields such weight of gold, such countless shining gems from the depths of its dark bowels! Thy sun's rays have so much warmth in them; in the shining of Thy stars there is so much pensive and peaceful joy! Give us, then, but a little of that bounty—but a little, but so much as Thou bestowest upon Thy birds: a little bread to stay the hunger of my brave, beloved husband, a little warmth to fend him from the cold, a little work to do, that he may raise his handsome head once more. And, I beseech Thee, be not angry with him that he should scold me so often, and that at other times he should laugh and bid me dance: for he is as yet but young, and cannot always be grave and sober.

[She rises to her feet again.]

There! Now that I have said a prayer I feel better—I begin to hope once more. Surely God must give occasionally when He is entreated so often? Now I will go out again and search the roadways, in the hope that some one may have dropped a purse or some jewellery.

[Exit.

The Being in Grey.

The woman knows not that her prayer is already granted. She knows not that this very day some noblemen have been bending eagerly over some designs submitted by the Man, and that finally they have decided to accept them. All this day those two noblemen have been seeking the Man in vain. Yea, wealth has been seeking him, even as hitherto he has been seeking wealth. And early on the morrow, at the hour when workmen are setting forth to their toil, a carriage will draw up at the entrance to the Man's dwelling, and the two wealthy noblemen will enter his humble chamber—bowing low in courteous salutation as they do so, and bringing with them the first beginnings of his fame and fortune. But, as yet, neither the Man nor his Wife knows of this, although good fortune is coming to the Man as surely as some day it will depart again.

[Enter the Man and his Wife. The former has a proud, handsome head, brilliant eyes, a high forehead, and dark eyebrows—the latter springing from a point so low down the nose as almost to resemble a pair of small, clearly defined wings attached to that member. His wavy black hair is flung back clear of his brow, and there are visible, over a soft, white turned-down collar, a well-set neck and a portion of the throat. Although his movements are as quick and elastic as those of some young animal, his pose is purely that of a symmetrical, well-balanced human being.]

The Man.

Once more nothing! Soon I shall have to take to lying in bed all day: so that whoever wants to see me will have to come to me, not I go to him. Yes, I will begin that mode of life to-morrow.

His Wife.

Are you so tired, then, my darling?

The Man.

Yes, tired and hungry; and though I could devour a whole ox, like one of Homer's heroes, I suppose I shall have to put up with a piece of dry bread! Yet a man cannot go on eating dry bread for ever, when all the time his appetite craves to be sated—craves for something into which it can plunge its teeth, and gorge itself, and be filled.

His Wife.

I am so sorry for you, my dearest one!

The Man.

As I am for you. Yet that makes me none the less ravenous. To-day I spent a whole hour in front of a cookshop; and just as people gape at masterpieces of art, so did I gape at the fat pies and capons and sausages in the window. And oh, the signboard above them! Do you know, it is possible to depict a ham on a signboard so cunningly that one could devour it, signboard and all.

His Wife.

Yes—I too could eat something.

The Man.

Of course. Who could not? But do you like lobsters?

His Wife.

I simply adore them!

The Man.

Then what a lobster I saw there! Though only a painted one, he was fairer even than the reality. Red, stately, and severe as a cardinal, he looked fit for consecration. I believe I could eat two such cardinals, and a reverend father carp into the bargain.

His Wife.

(Sadly.) But you have not noticed my flowers?

The Man.

Flowers, flowers? Do you expect me to eat them!

His Wife.

Ah, you cannot love me, to speak thus!

The Man.

Forgive me, forgive me, but I am so hungry! See how my hand is trembling. I could not even throw a stone at a dog with it.

His Wife.

(Kissing his hand.) My poor darling!

The Man.

But what is this parcel on the table? It seems to send forth a most unctuous smell. Did you put it there?

His Wife.

No indeed! It must have been the neighbours.

The Man.

What dear, goodhearted folks! But it is strange to think that, for all the kind people in the world, a man may perish of hunger! Why should that be?—Ah! Look there!

His Wife.

How you frighten me! How your eyes are staring! What is it you see? Surely it is something dreadful?

The Man.

Yes. Even as I jested there uprose before me—there, in that dark corner—the terrible figure of Starvation! Do you not see it now? Its hands are stretched forth as in piteous appeal, like those of some poor child which is lost in a forest and keeps crying out in a voice of childish agony—a voice which echoes and re-echoes in the deserted wilds—"Help me, or I die! Help me, or I die!"—and there is none to hear! Look, my wife, look! See how those dark shadows quiver and float, like volumes of black smoke belched forth from some deep shaft leading down to the pit of hell! See! see! I am being drawn into them!

His Wife.

Oh, I am terrified! I dare not look into that corner!—But, nay, nay; 'twas only in the street you saw all this?

The Man.

Yes, it was only in the street; but soon I shall be seeing it in this room.

His Wife.

No, no! God would never permit it!

The Man.

But why not? Does He not permit it to happen to other people?

His Wife.

Yes; but we are better than they. We are good people, and have done no wrong.

The Man.

Think you so? Then remember all my cruel scoldings of you.

His Wife.

But you have never really been cruel to me.

The Man.

Yes, I have!—yes, many and many a time! Nor is that all; for no wild boar could fall to grinding his tusks more wickedly than I do as I wander through the streets and gaze upon all those things whereof we stand in such desperate need. Ah, how much money there is in the world that we have not got! Listen to me, little wife. This