They enter, rolling a huge ball of dirt.
Mr. Beetle. It ’s all right, isn’t it?
Mrs. Beetle. I’m all of a tremble.
Mr. Beetle. Our capital—that ’s what it is—our lovely capital—careful—careful.
Mrs. Beetle. Can’t be too careful with our capital—our little pile.
Mr. Beetle. How we’ve saved and scraped and toiled and moiled to come by it.
Mrs. Beetle. Night and morning, toiled and moiled and saved and scraped.
Mr. Beetle. And we’ve seen it grow and grow, haven’t we, bit by bit—our little ball of blessedness.
Mrs. Beetle. Our very own it is.
Mr. Beetle. Our very own.
Mrs. Beetle. Our life’s work.
Mr. Beetle. Smell it, old woman—pinch it—feel the weight of it. Ours—ours.
Mrs. Beetle. A godsend.
Mr. Beetle. A blessing—straight from Heaven—capital—capital.
Chrysalis. Eternal night is breaking:
The universe is waking:
One minute, just one minute
And I—I—shall be in it.
Mrs. Beetle. Husband.
Mr. Beetle. What is it, old woman?
Mrs. Beetle. Ha, ha, ha!
Mr. Beetle. Ha, ha, ha! Wife!
Mrs. Beetle. What is it, old man?
Mr. Beetle. Ha, ha! It ’s fine to own something—property—the dream of your life, the fruit of your labours.
