_Molly._ Because of my money you mean, Willie dear. You aren't only marrying me for my money, are you? _Willie._ Of course not. [_He kisses her perfunctorily and returns to his work._ _Molly._ Because--because I've lost it all. _Willie_ (_sharply_). What's that? _Molly._ I've lost it all. _Willie._ Then what are you doing in my shop? Get out! _Molly_ (_with dignity_). I'm going, Willie, And I haven't lost my money at all. I just wanted to test you. Good-bye for ever. [_She goes out._ Willie _in despair rushes into the garden and buries his head in the mint._ SCENE V. [This part of William's dream was quite different from the rest, and it was the only scene in which his wife didn't appear.] _An actor-manager's room._ _Actor-manager._ Yes, I like your play immensely. I don't suppose any actor-manager has ever played so many parts before in one evening. But couldn't you get another scene into it? _William._ Well, I've got an old curtain-raiser here, but it doesn't seem to fit in somehow. _Actor-manager._ Nonsense. In a dream play it doesn't matter about fitting in. What's it about? _William._ Oh, the usual sort of love thing. Only it's in the tropics, and I really want an ice-pudding scene. _Actor-manager._ Then make it the North Pole. _William._ Good idea. [_Exit to do so._ EPILOGUE. _Next morning._ _William._ I've had an extraordinary, dream, dear, and--er--I've decided not to eat so much in future. _Mary._ My darling boy! [_She embraces him; and as the scene closes William takes his fifth egg._ CURTAIN. A. A. M. * * * * * [Illustration: AN ALTRUIST MALGRE LUI.] * * * * * NEWS FROM THE FRONT. ["THE SARDINE WAR."--_Headline in a daily paper._] There was peace at first in the tight-packed tin, Content in the greasy gloom, Till the whisper ran there were some therein With more than their share of room; And I saw the combat from start to end, I heard the rage and the roar, For I was the special _The Daily Friend_ Sent out to the Sardine War. The courage was high on every face As the wronged ones took their stand On the right of all to a resting-place In a tinfoil fatherland; Yes, each one, knowing he fought for home, Cast craven fear to the gales, And the oil was whipped to a creamy foam By the lashing of frenzied tails. You may think that peace has been quite assured When you've packed them tight inside, But the sardine's spirit is far from cured When you salt his outer hide; They gave no quarter, they scorned to yield, To a fish they died in the press, And, dying, lay on the stricken field In an oleaginous mess. * * * * * ISABEL IN SPRINGTIME.