Enter Mrs. Beetle.
Mrs. Beetle. Isn’t my husband here? Oh, the stupid man. Where is our pile?
Mrs. Cricket. Your pile? Can we play with it? Do let me see it.
Mrs. Beetle. It ’s nothing to play with, it ’s our future, our nest-egg, our capital. My husband, the clumsy creature, has gone off with it.
Mrs. Cricket. Oh dear, I hope he hasn’t run away from you.
Mrs. Beetle. And where is yours?
Mrs. Cricket. He ’s away on business. Cricket! Cricket!
Mrs. Beetle. Fancy him leaving you all alone like that, poor thing, and you—(Whispers)—aren’t you?
Mrs. Cricket. Oh dear!
Mrs. Beetle. So young, too. And aren’t you making a pile?
Mrs. Cricket. What for?
Mrs. Beetle. A pile—for you and him and your family. That’s for your future—for your whole life.
Mrs. Cricket. Oh no, all I want is to have my own little home, my nest, a little house of my very own. And curtains, and children, and my Cricket. That ’s all.
Mrs. Beetle. How can you live without a pile?
Mrs. Cricket. What should I do with it?
Mrs. Beetle. Roll it about with you everywhere. There ’s nothing like a pile for holding a man.
Mrs. Cricket. Oh no, a little house.
Mrs. Beetle. A pile, I tell you.
Mrs. Cricket. A little house.
