OLIVER.  Jill, you must give the word.  JILL.  Are you ready?

(The sound of a gong is heard.)

CHIEF.  Listen! (The gong is heard again) The Spanish Fleet is engaged!

JILL. I thought it was our tea gong.

CHIEF.  Ah, perhaps you’re right.

OLIVER.  I say, we oughtn’t to miss tea. (Holding out his hand to her)
Come on, Jill.

CHIEF.  But you’ll come back?  We shall always be waiting here for you whenever you want us.

JILL.  Yes, we’ll come back, won’t we, Oliver?

OLIVER.  Oo, rather.

(The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and Dusky Maidens, come on.  They sing as they wave good-bye to the children who are making their way to the boat.)

JILL (from the boat).  Good-bye, good-bye.

OLIVER.  Good-bye, you chaps.

JILL (politely).  And thank you all for a very pleasant afternoon.

    [They are all singing as the boat pushes off.  Night comes on with
    tropical suddenness.  The singing dies slowly down.

ACT III.—­FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE HUBBARD FAMILY

SCENE I.—­The drawing-room of the HUBBARDS before Fame and Prosperity came to them.  It is simply furnished with a deal table and two cane chairs.

MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, in faultless evening dress, are at home, MR. HUBBARD reading a magazine, MRS. HUBBARD with her hands in her lap.  She sighs.

MR. HUBBARD (impetuously throwing down his magazine).  Dearest, you sighed?

MRS. HUBBARD (quickly).  No, no, Henry.  In a luxurious and well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh?

MR. HUBBARD.  True, dear.  Not only is it artistically furnished, as you say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all things—­(he lifts up the magazine)—­a library.

MRS. HUBBARD.  Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful for.

MR. HUBBARD.  We have indeed.  But I am selfish.  Would you care to read?  (He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to her.)

MRS. HUBBARD.  Thank you, thank you, Henry.

(They both sit in silence for a little.  She sighs again.)

MR. HUBBARD.  Darling, you did sigh.  Tell me what grieves you.

MRS. HUBBARD.  Little Isabel.  Her cough troubles me.

MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully).  Isabel?

MRS. HUBBARD.  Yes, dear, our youngest.  Don’t you remember, she comes after Harold?

MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers).  A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I—­dear me, have we got nine already?

MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly).  Darling, say you don’t think it’s too many.

MR. HUBBARD.  Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . .  After all, it isn’t as if they were real children.

MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly).  Henry!  How can you say they are not real?

MR. HUBBARD.  Well, I mean they’re only the children we thought we’d like to have if Father Christmas gave us any.