The Editor. None of that nonsense! I am accustomed to be hated, despised, spit upon, scourged; if any one speaks kindly to me, I do not trust them!
Evje. You must trust me!
The Editor. No—and, besides, I observed very clearly to-day that you had counted on having me in reserve if ever you got into a scrape.
Evje. Well, who doesn't count on his friends? Doesn't every one take them into his reckoning?
The Editor. I don't; I have no friends.
Evje. Haven't you me? Do you think I would leave you in the lurch?
The Editor. That is hypocrisy! At times when I have needed it, the very last thing you have thought of has been to give me any help!
Evje. Have I not helped you?
The Editor. That is hypocrisy, too-to pretend you think I am speaking of money. No; when I have been accused of being dishonourable—of lying—you, the "old schoolfellow," the "old friend," the "neighbour," have never once had the courage to come forward on my behalf.
Evje. I never meddle with politics.