"I've been engaged to you more than two years, and you're no nearer being my wife than you were at the beginning. If anything, you're further off. And I'm sick and tired of waiting; that's what I mean." "If you'd only said so at first." "I did; didn't I?" "I thought you meant something quite different." "I can't help what you thought. I know what I meant." "Poor Joe! So you want us to be quick and get married, do you?" "Of course I do; what else do you suppose I got engaged for? But we can't marry on ten bob a week." "Hardly." "And that's all I get, living in. I asked the governor yesterday to give me thirty bob and let me live out. He said all he'd give me was a week's notice." "The wretch!" "As for bettering myself; I dare say I've spent five shillings on paper, stamps and envelopes, and nothing's come of it. We don't want to get married and have you keep on the stage." "We certainly don't. I have a voice in that matter. When I marry I leave the stage for good; I don't marry until I do. I hate the theatre; that is, I don't mind being in front of the curtain, looking on; but I hate being behind. I only go there because I don't know any other way of earning two pounds a week. I've no delusions about the stage like some of the girls have. But, tell me, Joe, can't you think of any way of earning more?" "There's one way." "What's that?" "Emigrating." As she repeated the word again the expression on the lady's face grew rueful. "Emigrating!" "Going to Africa or Canada or one of those places where a fellow has a chance." "But you'd have to leave me behind." "That's the worst of it." "We mightn't see each other again for years." "We mightn't." There was a pause. The lady had seated herself on the arm of the chair on which her lover sat, and was smoothing his hair with her dainty little hand. "Joe, would you like to do that?" "I'd sooner do anything--anything! I'd sooner sweep a crossing; I'd sooner be a shoeblack. I hear that some of them shoeblacks earn six and seven shillings a day when there's plenty of mud about." "I don't think I should care for you to be a shoeblack, even when there's plenty of mud about. I'd almost rather you did anything than that." "But there's nothing I can do." Another pause; this time a longer one. Joe Lamb sat with his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his Sunday trousers; a frown upon his brow. The lady continued to smooth his well-brushed hair. "Joe, suppose I were to see my way to earn some money." "You! Are they going to raise you to fifty shillings, and give you a line to speak: 'The carriage waits,' or something of that sort?" She suffered his ungraciousness to pass unheeded. "Suppose I were to see my way to earn, say, five thousand pounds." Mr Lamb, withdrawing his head from the neighbourhood of the lady's caressing hand, sat bolt upright in his chair with a start. "Five--what?"