STRANGER. Yes. He must have been.
WOMAN. Now you're so intolerant.
STRANGER (drinking). Am I?
WOMAN. Don't drink so much; I want to see you far above me, otherwise you can't raise me up.
STRANGER. What illusions you must have! Childish! I lift you up! I who am down below. Yet I'm not; it's not I who sit here, for I'm dead. I know that my soul's far away, far, far away.... (He stares in front of him with an absent-minded air)... where a great lake lies in the sunshine like molten gold; where roses blossom on the wall amongst the vines; where a white cot stands under the acacias. But the child's asleep and the mother's sitting beside the cot doing crochet work. There's a long, long strip coming from her mouth and on the strip is written... wait... 'Blessed are the sorrowful, for they shall be comforted.' But that's not so, really. I shall never be comforted. Tell me, isn't there thunder in the air, it's so close, so hot?
WOMAN (looking out of the window). No. I can see no clouds out there....
STRANGER. Strange... that's lightning.
WOMAN. No. You're wrong.
STRANGER. One, two, three, four, five... now the thunder must come! But it doesn't. I've never been frightened of a thunderstorm until to-day—I mean, until to-night. But is it day or night?
WOMAN. My dear, it's night.