[Inside the door, rattling.] Hasn't my lark changed its dress yet? [Nora unbolts door.] What—so you are not in fancy costume, after all? [Enters with Rank.] Are there any letters for me in the box there?
Nora.
[Voicelessly.] None—not even a postcard! Oh, Torvald, don't, please, go and look—promise me you won't! I do assure you there isn't a letter! And I've forgotten the Tarantella you taught me—do let's run over it. I'm so afraid of breaking down—promise me not to look at the letter-box. I can't dance unless you do.
Helmer.
[Standing still, on his way to the letter-box.] I am a man of strict business habits, and some powers of observation; my little squirrel's assurances that there is nothing in the box, combined with her obvious anxiety that I should not go and see for myself, satisfy me that it is indeed empty, in spite of the fact that I have not invariably found her a strictly truthful little dicky-bird. There—there. [Sits down to piano.] Bang away on your tambourine, little squirrel—dance away, my own lark!
Nora.
[Dancing, with a long gay shawl.] Just won't the little squirrel! Faster—faster! Oh, I do feel so gay! We will have some champagne for dinner, won't we, Torvald?
[Dances with more and more abandonment.
Helmer.
[After addressing frequent remarks in correction.] Come, come—not this awful wildness! I don't like to see quite such a larky little lark as this.... Really it is time you stopped!