RODRIGO. His poem. He'd like to stretch her out and torture her a little first.
SCHIGOLCH. (Staring at Hugenberg.) His eyes! His eyes!
RODRIGO. His eyes, yes. They've robbed her of sleep for a week.
SCHIGOLCH. (To Rodrigo.) You can have yourself pickled.
RODRIGO. We can both have ourselves pickled! Our health, gossip Death!
SCHIGOLCH. (Clinking with him.) Health, jack-in-the-box! If it's still better later on, I'm ready for departure at any moment; but—but— (Lulu enters right, in an elegant Parisian ball-dress, much décolleté, with flowers in breast and hair.)
LULU. But children, children, I expect company!
SCHIGOLCH. But I can tell you what, those things must cost something over there! (Hugenberg has risen. Lulu sits on the arm of his chair.)
LULU. You've fallen into pretty company! I expect visitors, children!
SCHIGOLCH. I guess I've got to stick something in there, too. (He searches among the flowers on the table.)