THE PORTRESS. His sweetheart.
THE DAUGHTER. Right said! What she is to us and others matters nothing to him. And what she is to him, that alone is her real self.
It is suddenly turning dark.
THE PORTRESS. [Lights a lantern] It is growing dark early to-day.
THE DAUGHTER. To the gods a year is as a minute.
THE PORTRESS. And to men a minute may be as long as a year.
THE OFFICER. [Enters again, looking dusty; the roses are withered] She has not come yet?
THE PORTRESS. No.
THE OFFICER. But she will come—She will come! [Walks up and down] But come to think of it, perhaps I had better call off the dinner after all—as it is late? Yes, I will do that.
[Goes back into the lodge and telephones.