Dr. Rank.
Did you notice it? [With pride.] It was almost incredible the amount I contrived to put away. But I shall suffer for it to-morrow. [Gloomily.] Heredity again! I wish I was dead! I do.
Nora.
Don't apologise. Torvald was just as bad; but he is always so good-tempered after champagne.
Dr. Rank.
Ah, well, I just looked in to say that I haven't long to live. Don't weep for me, Mrs. Helmer, it's chronic—and hereditary too. Here are my P.P.C. cards. I'm a fading flower. Can you oblige me with a cigar?
Nora.
[With a suppressed smile.] Certainly. Let me give you a light?
[Doctor Rank lights his cigar, after several ineffectual attempts, and goes out.
Helmer.