I am so uneasy about poor Lövborg. Fancy! he is not at home. Mrs. Elvsted told me he has been here early this morning, so I suppose you gave him back his manuscript, eh?
Hedda.
[Cold and immovable, supported by arm-chair.] No, I put it on the fire instead.
George.
On the fire! Lövborg's wonderful new book that he read to me at Brack's party, when we had that wild revelry last night! Fancy that! But, I say, Hedda—isn't that rather—eh? Too bad, you know—really. A great work like that. How on earth did you come to think of it?
Hedda.
[Suppressing an almost imperceptible smile.] Well, dear George, you gave me a tolerably strong hint.
George.
Me? Well, to be sure—that is a joke! Why, I only said that I envied him for writing such a book, and it would put me entirely in the shade if it came out, and if anything was to happen to it, I should never forgive myself, as poor Lövborg couldn't write it all over again, and so we must take the greatest care of it! And then I left it on a chair and went away—that was all! And you went and burnt the book all up! Bless me, who would have expected it?
Hedda.