Nora. Christine! To think of my not recognising you! And yet how could I—(In a gentle voice.) How you have altered, Christine!
Mrs. Linde. Yes, I have indeed. In nine, ten long years—
Nora. Is it so long since we met? I suppose it is. The last eight years have been a happy time for me, I can tell you. And so now you have come into the town, and have taken this long journey in winter—that was plucky of you.
Mrs. Linde. I arrived by steamer this morning.
Nora. To have some fun at Christmas-time, of course. How delightful! We will have such fun together! But take off your things. You are not cold, I hope. (Helps her.) Now we will sit down by the stove, and be cosy. No, take this arm-chair; I will sit here in the rocking-chair. (Takes her hands.) Now you look like your old self again; it was only the first moment—You are a little paler, Christine, and perhaps a little thinner.
Mrs. Linde. And much, much older, Nora.
Nora. Perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much. (Stops suddenly and speaks seriously.) What a thoughtless creature I am, chattering away like this. My poor, dear Christine, do forgive me.
Mrs. Linde. What do you mean, Nora?
Nora (gently). Poor Christine, you are a widow.