CHRISTINE. We would save a great deal of money—but it would be disappointing.
ELIS. I couldn't live thro' it—I have stayed here three summers—and it's like a dead city to me. The rats come out from the cellars and alleys—while the cats are out spending the summer in the country. And all the old women that couldn't get away sit peeking through the blinds gossiping about their neighbors—"See, he has his winter suit on"—and sneer at the worn-down heels of the passers-by. And from the poor quarters wretched beings drag themselves out of their holes, cripples, creatures without noses or ears, the wicked and unfortunate—filling the parks and squares as if they had conquered the city—there where the well-dressed children just played, while their parents or maids looked on and encouraged them in their frolics. I remember last summer when I—
CHRISTINE. Oh, Elis—Elis—look forward—look forward.
ELIS. Is it brighter there?
CHRISTINE. Let us hope so.
ELIS [Sits at writing table]. If it would only stop snowing out there, so we could go out for a walk!
CHRISTINE. Dearest Elis, yesterday you wanted night to come, so that we might be shielded from the hateful glances of the people. You said, "Darkness is so kind," and that it's like drawing the blanket over one's head.
ELIS. That only goes to prove that my misery is as great one way as the other. [Reading papers.] The worst part of the suit is all the questioning about father's way of living.—It says here that we gave big dinner parties.—One witness practically says that my father was a drunkard—no, that's too much. No. No, I won't—as tho'—I must go thro' it, I suppose.—Aren't you cold?
CHRISTINE. No. But it isn't warm here. Isn't Lina home?
ELIS. She's gone to church.