afternoon I was walking in the park—that beautiful park where the paths run straight as pistol-shots, and the beech-trees look like kings in crowns.

His Wife.

And I too was walking in the streets, with shops, shops, shops everywhere—such beautiful shops!

The Man.

And people passed me who were carrying gold-mounted canes and wearing splendid clothes: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, I have none of these things!"

His Wife.

And I too was passed by rich people—by fine ladies in dainty boots which made their feet look so elegant, and exquisite hats from under which their eyes glanced so bewitchingly, and silken petticoats which gave their figures such an inexpressible charm: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, I have no smart hats and silken petticoats!"

The Man.

One dandy had the impudence to jostle me, but I just gave him a glimpse of my boar's tusks, and he very soon lost himself in the crowd.

His Wife.

And I too was jostled by a fine lady; yet I could not bring myself even to look at her, I felt so miserable!

The Man.

Also, I saw people riding in the park—riding fiery, spirited horses. Alas, I have none such!

His Wife.

One fine lady whom I met was wearing diamond earrings—earrings which I could actually have kissed!

The Man.

Red and green motor-cars, with great, glaring eyes, were gliding along as silently as ghosts, and the people in them were laughing and jesting and looking indolently about them. Alas, I have no motor-car!

His Wife.

Nor I diamonds, nor emeralds, nor clear white pearls!

The Man.

Up above the ornamental water there was a restaurant, blazing with lights like the firmament of heaven; and in it people were dining, while men in tail-coats who might have been ministers of State, and white-aproned women who looked like veritable winged angels, were carrying wine and dishes about. And every one was eating and drinking, eating and drinking. Ah, how I too could have eaten and drunk! My wife, my wife, I am so hungry!

His Wife.

My poor darling, it is having to walk about so much that makes you hungry. But never mind. Sit down here, and I will climb on to your knee, and you shall take paper and pencil and draw me a beautiful, beautiful palace.

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!

His Wife.

My dearest one, I was not, I am not, hungry.

The Man.

Oh, it was shameful and unmanly of me! The dandy who jostled me in the park did rightly, for he saw that it was a mere sensual pig that was passing him by—a wild boar of sharp tusks indeed, but most gross mind.

His Wife.

If you go on scolding yourself so unjustly I shall weep again.

The Man.

No, no, you must not weep. When I see tears in those pretty eyes I am seized with dread. Yes, I am afraid of those little crystal drops; for, whenever I behold them, I feel as though it were not you, but some stranger whom I know not, that were shedding them. No, you must not weep. We are poor, and have nothing, I know, but we can talk of what we shall surely have some day, and I can tell you bright fairy tales, and wrap you round with shining fancies, my little queen.

His Wife.

Ah, we have no cause to be afraid. You are too strong, and too great a genius, to be vanquished by life. The present time will pass away, and inspiration will once more spread its influence over your splendid head.

[The Man assumes a proud and daring attitude of challenge, and throws a sprig of oak towards the corner where stands the Being in Grey.]

The Man.

See thou, whatsoever be thy name—whether Fate, Life, or Devil! I cast thee down my gauntlet, I challenge thee to battle! Men of faint heart may bow before thy mysterious power, thy face of stone may inspire them with dread, in thy unbroken silence they may discern the birth of calamity and an impending avalanche of woe. But I am daring and strong, and I challenge thee to battle! Let us draw our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth and fight with me!

His Wife.

(With enthusiasm, as she leans upon the Man's shoulder.) More boldly yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet!

The Man.

To thy vile laggardness I will oppose my swift and living strength—to thy dim mystery my open, ringing laughter! Ha! Parry thou my strokes if thou canst! At thy dull forehead of stone I will aim the whitehot bullets of my flashing intellect! Into thy pitiless heart of stone I will inject the burning poison of remorse for the agony which thou didst cause my mother at my birth! Of a surety there shall arise a sun which shall dispel the black thunderclouds of thy cruel enmity! Yea, the flashing of our swords shall illumine the darkness! Ha! Fend thou my passes if thou canst!

His Wife.

More boldly yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet! Thy trusty armour-bearer stands beside thee, my valiant knight!

The Man.

As I advance thou shalt hear me singing such songs as shall echo the wide world through! What though I fall beneath a blow of thine, I will yet utter no cry, but cast about how I may raise myself and renew the combat! In my armour there are weak spots—that I know full well; but though I be covered with wounds, though I be red with my own blood, I will yet summon my last remaining strength to cry, "Thou hast not vanquished me yet, thou cruel enemy of man!"

His Wife.

More boldly yet, my trusty knight! More boldly yet! I will bathe thy wounds with my tears, and staunch thy red blood with my kisses!

The Man.

What though I die upon the field of battle, it will be as brave men die; making thy triumph but an empty one with my never-failing challenge, "Thou hast not vanquished me yet, nor wilt thou ever!" In very truth it will be I who will have gained the victory, thou bitter foe of mine: for until my last faint breath shall have been drawn I shall have refused to own thy power!

His Wife.

More boldly yet, my knight I More boldly yet! I will die with thee!

The Man.

Ha! Come forth to battle! Let us flash our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth, come forth!

[For a few seconds the Man and his Wife retain their respective attitudes. Then they turn to one another and em-brace.]

The Man.

Thus will