JULIA. How do you know?
JEAN. Well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep no Pedigrees—except in the police bureau. But I have read about your pedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. Do you know who was your first ancestor? A miller who let his wife sleep with the king one night during the war with Denmark. I have no such ancestry. I have none at all, but I can become an ancestor myself.
JULIA. That's what I get for unburdening my heart to one not worthy of it; for sacrificing my family's honour—
JEAN. Dishonour! Well, what was it I told you? You shouldn't drink, for then you talk. And you must not talk!
JULIA. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret it! If at least you loved me!
JEAN. For the last time: what do you mean? Am I to weep? Am I to jump over your whip? Am I to kiss you, and lure you down to Lake Como for three weeks, and so on? What am I to do? What do you expect? This is getting to be rather painful! But that's what comes from getting mixed up with women. Miss Julia! I see that you are unhappy; I know that you are suffering; but I cannot understand you. We never carry on like that. There is never any hatred between us. Love is to us a play, and we play at it when our work leaves us time to do so. But we have not the time to do so all day and all night, as you have. I believe you are sick—I am sure you are sick.
JULIA. You should be good to me—and now you speak like a human being.
JEAN. All right, but be human yourself. You spit on me, and then you won't let me wipe myself—on you!
JULIA. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do—where I am to turn?
JEAN. O Lord, if I only knew that myself!