Christine. What! You saw it?

John. Yes, that I did. They were one evening down there in the stable, and the young lady was “training” him, as she called it. What do you think she was doing? She made him jump over the riding whip like a dog which one is teaching to hop. He jumped over twice, and each time he got a cut, but the third time he snatched her riding whip out of her hand, smashed it into smithereens and—cleared out.

Christine. Was that it? No, you can’t mean it?

John. Yes, that was how it happened. Can’t you give me something nice to eat, now, Christine?

Christine. [Takes up the plate and puts it before JOHN.] Well, there’s only a little bit of liver, which I’ve cut off the joint.

John. [Sniffs the food.] Ah, very nice, that’s my special dish. [He feels the plate.] But you might have warmed up the plate.

Christine. Why, you’re even more particular than the Count himself, once you get going. [She draws her fingers caressingly through his hair.]

John. [Wickedly.] Ugh, you mustn’t excite me like that, you know jolly well how sensitive I am.

Christine. There, there now, it was only because I love you.

John. [Eats. CHRISTINE gets out a bottle of beer.] Beer on Midsummer’s Night! Not for me, thank you. I can go one better than that myself. [He opens the sideboard and takes out a bottle of red wine with a yellow label.] Yellow label, do you see, dear? Just give me a glass. A wineglass, of course, when a fellow’s going to drink neat wine.

Christine. [Turns again toward the fireplace and puts a small saucepan on.] God pity the woman who ever gets you for a husband, a growler like you!