Mr. Cricket. Sit down, darling, sit down. My popsy must take great care of herself.
Mrs. Cricket. What a long way—And all the move! Oh, men never know half the trouble moving is.
Mr. Cricket. Oh darling, come, come—Look, darling, look.
Mrs. Cricket. Now don’t get cross, you horrid man.
Mr. Cricket. I won’t say another word, really I won’t. Fancy, Mrs. Cricket won’t take care of herself, and in her state too—What do you think of her?
Mrs. Cricket. You naughty man—how can you joke about it?
Mr. Cricket. But darling, I’m so happy. Just fancy, all the little crickets, the noise, the chirping—(Imitates the noise and laughs.)
Mrs. Cricket. You—you silly boy—wants to be a great big Daddy, eh?
Mr. Cricket. And don’t you want to be a Mummy too?—my Popsy?
Mrs. Cricket. Yes’m does! Is this our new home?
Mr. Cricket. Our little nest. Commodious little villa residence.
Mrs. Cricket. Will it be dry? Who built it?
Mr. Cricket. Why, goodness me, another Cricket lived here years ago.
Mrs. Cricket. Fancy, and has he moved?
Mr. Cricket. Ha, ha—Yes, he ’s moved. Don’t you know where to? Guess.
Mrs. Cricket. I don’t know—What a long time you take saying anything—Do tell me, Cricket, quickly.
