A room tastefully filled with cheap Art-furniture. Gimcracks in an étagère: a festoon of chenille monkeys hanging from the gaselier. Japanese fans, skeletons, cotton-wool spiders, frogs and lizards, scattered everywhere about. Drain-pipes with tall dyed grasses. A porcelain stove decorated with transferable pictures. Showily-bound books in book-case. Window. The Visitor's bell rings in the hall outside. The hall-door is heard to open, and then to shut. Presently Nora walks in with parcels; a porter carries a large Christmas-tree after her—which he puts down. Nora gives him a shilling—and he goes out grumbling.
Nora hums contentedly, and eats macaroons. Then Helmer puts his head out of his Manager's room, and Nora hides macaroons cautiously.
Helmer.
[Playfully.] Is that my little squirrel twittering—that my lark frisking in here?
Nora.
Ess! [To herself.] I have only been married eight years, so these marital amenities have not yet had time to pall!
Helmer.
[Threatening with his finger.] I hope the little bird has surely not been digging its beak into any macaroons, eh?
Nora.
[Bolting one, and wiping her mouth.] No, most certainly not. [To herself] The worst of being so babyish is—one does have to tell such a lot of taradiddles! [To Helmer.] See what I've bought—it's been such fun! [Hums.