MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will give
us some.
MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our
stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a
diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order
would be something.
MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the chimney
has not been swept for some years may have something to do with it. Or
he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot help feeling
that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this way he would be
very much annoyed.
MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I am
standing up in--I mean sitting down in.
MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of us in
the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening dress. We
are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately cuts us off in
this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go on reading or would
you like to walk up and down the room? Fortunately these simple
pleasures are left to us.
MRS. HUBBARD. I've finished this page.
MR. HUBBARD (tearing out one). Have another, my love. (They read for a
little while, until interrupted by a knock at the door.
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