Julie. Yes, that’s what you call life; but what about me?

John. The mistress of the house, the ornament of the firm, with your appearance and your manners—oh! success is certain. Splendid! You sit like a queen in the counting house, and set all your slaves in motion, with a single touch of your electric bell; the visitors pass in procession by your throne, lay their treasure respectfully on your table; you’ve got no idea how men tremble when they take a bill up in- their hand—I’ll touch up the bills, and you must sugar them with your sweetest laugh. Ah, let’s get away from here. [He takes a time-table out of his pocket.] Right away by the next train, by six-thirty we’re at Malmo; at eight-forty in the morning at Hamburg; Frankfort—one day in Basle and in Como by the St. Gothard Tunnel in—let’s see—three days. Only three days.

Julie. That all sounds very nice, but, John, you must give me courage, dear. Tell me that you love me, dear; come and take me in your arms.

John. [Hesitating.] I should like to—but I dare not—not here in the house. I love you, no doubt about it—can you have any real doubt about it, Miss?

Julie. [With real feminine shame.] Miss? Say “Dear.” There are no longer any barriers between us—say “Dear.”

John. [In a hurt tone.] I can’t. There are still barriers between us so long as we remain in this house: there is the past—there is my master the Count; I never met a man whom I’ve respected so much—I’ve only got to see his gloves lying on a chair and straight away I feel quite small; I’ve only got to hear the bell up. there and I dash away like a startled horse and—I’ve only got to see his boots standing there, so proud and upright, and I’ve got a pain inside.