ALVA. He's trembling as if he had fever.
FERDINAND. I am not yet so used to waiting ...
ALVA. You must have something prescribed for you.
FERDINAND. (Thru his teeth.) I'm a coachman usually— (Exit.)
SCHÖN. (Whispering from the gallery.) So, he too. (Seats himself behind the rail, able to cover himself with the hangings.)
LULU. What sort of moments are those of which you spoke, where one expects to see his whole inner self tumble in?
ALVA. I didn't want to speak of them. I should not like to lose, in joking over a glass of champagne, what has been my highest happiness for ten years.
LULU. I have hurt you. I won't begin on that again.
ALVA. Do you promise me that for always?
LULU. My hand on it. (Gives him her hand across the table. Alva takes it hesitatingly, grips it in his, and presses it long and ardently to his lips.) What are you doing. (Rodrigo sticks his head out from the curtains, left. Lulu darts an angry look at him across Alva, and he draws back.)