_Tom._ Yes, I think it would! But at present I’ve only my half-pay--a pound a week--and we can’t marry on that. _Car._ Why not? It is ten shillings a week each. I am content if you are. Say, Arthur, shall we be made one? _Tom._ My dear Caroline, it’s nonsense to talk about being made one. (_She takes out her note-book._) It’s my experience that when poor people marry, they’re made half a dozen, at least, in no time! _Car._ Arthur! (_Shuts up book._) Well, I must wait and hope. Oh for a war! (_COBB much alarmed._) A vast, vast, vast war! Oh for the clash of steel-clad foemen! Oh for the deadly cannonade! And loud above the din of battle, I bear my Arthur’s voice, as, like a doughty Paladin of old, he cleaves his path where’er the fight is thickest! Oh! I think I see him doing it! [_Exit CAROLINE._ _Tom._ Yes. I think I see myself doing it! Poor, dear girl, it’s a shame to deceive her, but what can I do in the face of this confounded advertisement, which still appears in all the papers every day! (_Reads._) “£50 reward will be paid to any one who will give any information concerning the whereabouts of Thomas Cobb, M.R.C.S. Apply to Docket and Tape, 27, Paragon, Somers Town!” For just six mouths this blighting paragraph has appeared in every paper in London. Every one is talking about it; a Christmas annual has been published, “How we found Tom Cobb,” and a farce, called “Tom Cobb found at last,” is playing at a principal theatre! _Enter WHIPPLE._ _Tom._ Whipple, you here? _Whi._ Yes, how de do? I’m quite well. So’s Matilda. _Tom._ That name! _Whi._ She’s downstairs, with Miss Effingham. _Tom._ Downstairs! And does she--don’t think I ask from an improper motive--does she ever talk about me? (_Sits._) _Whi._ Never mentions you by any chance. But she often drops a tear to the memory of poor dead-and-gone Tom Cobb. _Tom._ Oh! she does _that_, does she? That’s rather nasty for you, isn’t it? _Whi._ Not a bit. (_Sits._) It does her credit, and I honour her for it. The poor fellow’s dead, and there’s an end to him. I loved him as a brother! (_Wiping his eye._) He did my botany papers for me at the College. But it’s no use repining. No power on earth can bring him to life again, now. How she loved that man! _Tom_ (_half sobbing_). Oh, Matilda! Be good to her, Whipple. _Whi._ I will, General; trust me. _Tom._ Is she--is she as fond of the theatre as ever! _Whi._ Quite. We go every night. _Tom._ She used to call it the “theayter.” _Whi._ (_much moved_). She does still! _Tom._ Bless her for it. And does she still like oysters after the play? _Whi._ Always. She bargains for ’em--stout and oysters. _Tom._ She used to call them “histers.” _Whi._ She does still. _Tom._ Oh, thank you for this news of her. Oh, Whipple, make that woman happy!