Em.: Five!
Maj. (anxiously): Is that too many?
Em.: It's rather a number. The worst of it is, I've some myself.
Maj.: Many?
Em.: Eight
Maj.: Eight in six years! Oh, Emily!
Em.: Only four were my own. The other four were by my husband's first marriage. Still, that practically makes eight.
Maj.: And eight and five make thirteen. We can't start our married life with thirteen children; it would be most unlucky. (Walks up and down in agitation.) Some way must be found out of this. If we could only bring them down to twelve. Thirteen is so horribly unlucky.
Em.: Isn't there some way by which we could part with one or two? Don't the French want more children? I've often seen articles about it in the Figaro.
Maj.: I fancy they want French children. Mine don't even speak French.
Em.: There's always a chance that one of them might turn out depraved and vicious, and then you could disown him. I've heard of that being done.
Maj.: But, good gracious, you've got to
