MARY.  Well, she’d like to have it, of course—­they’re so dreadfully poor themselves—­but she says she won’t turn us out.  And I’m going to-morrow to her daughter’s upstairs—­she makes matchboxes, you know—­and I don’t see why I shouldn’t try—­I could earn nearly a shilling a day.

JOE.  A shilling a day!  Princely! [His pipe goes out.  He takes a last puff at it, squints into it to make sure all the tobacco is gone, then lays it down with a sigh.] I reckon I’ll try making ’em too.  I went to the Vestry again, this morning, to see whether they’d take me as sweeper—­but they’ve thirty names down, ahead of me.  I’ve tried chopping wood, but I can’t—­I begin to cough the third stroke—­there’s something wrong with me inside, somewhere.  I’ve tried every Institution on God’s earth—­and there are others before me, and there is no vacancy, and I mustn’t beg, and I mustn’t worry the gentlemen.  A shilling a day—­can one earn as much as that!  Why, Mary, that will be fourteen shillings a week—­an income!  We’ll do it!

MARY.  It’s not quite a shilling, Joe—­you have to find your own paste and odds and ends.  And of course it takes a few weeks to learn, before you begin to make any money.

JOE. [Crestfallen.] Does it though?  And what are we going to do, those few weeks?  I thought there was a catch in it, somewhere. [He gets up and stretches himself.] Well, here’s a free-born Englishman, able to conduct correspondence in three languages, bookkeeping by double entry, twelve years’ experience—­and all he’s allowed to do is to starve. [He stretches himself again.]

    But in spite of all temptations
    To belong to other nations—­

[With sudden passion.] God!  I wish I were a Zulu!

MARY. [Edging to him.] Joe—­

JOE. [Turning.] Well?

MARY.  Joe, Joe, we’ve tried very hard, haven’t we?

JOE.  Tried!  Is there a job in this world we’d refuse?  Is there anything we’d turn up our nose at?  Is there any chance we’ve neglected?

MARY. [Stealing nervously to him and laying a hand on his arm.] Joe—­

JOE. [Raising his head and looking at her.] Yes—­what is it? [She stands timidly with downcast eyes.] Well?  Out with it, Mary!

MARY. [Suddenly.] It’s this, Joe.

     [She goes feverishly to the mattress, and from underneath it she
     pulls out a big, fat purse which she hands him.

JOE. [Staring.] A purse!

MARY. [Nodding.] Yes.

JOE.  You—­

MARY.  Found it.

JOE. [Looking at her.] Found?

MARY. [Awkwardly.] In a way I did—­yes.

JOE.  How?

MARY.  It came on to rain, Joe—­and I went into a Tube Station—­and was standing by a bookstall, showing Minnie the illustrated papers—­and an old lady bought one—­and she took out her purse—­this purse—­and paid for it—­and laid the purse on the board while she fumbled to pick up her skirts—­and then some one spoke to her—­a friend, I suppose—­and—­there were lots of people standing about—­I don’t know how it was—­I was out in the street, with Minnie—­