FRIDA. Do you mind if I run down by the winding stair? It's the shortest way.
BORKMAN. Oh, by all means; take whatever stair you please, so far as I am concerned. Good-night to you!
FRIDA.
Good-night, Mr. Borkman.
[She goes out by the little tapestry door in the back on
the left.
[BORKMAN, lost in thought, goes up to the piano, and is about to close it, but changes his mind. Looks round the great empty room, and sets to pacing up and down it from the corner at the back on the right—pacing backward and forward uneasily and incessantly. At last he goes up to the writing-table, listens in the direction of the folding door, hastily snatches up a hand-glass, looks at himself in it, and straightens his necktie.
[A knock at the folding door. BORKMAN hears it, looks rapidly towards the door, but says nothing.
[In a little there comes another knock, this time louder.
BORKMAN. [Standing beside the writing-table with his left hand resting upon it, and his right thrust in the breast of his coat.] Come in!
[VILHELM FOLDAL comes softly into the room. He is a bent and worn man with mild blue eyes and long, thin grey hair straggling down over his coat collar. He has a portfolio under his arm, a soft felt hat, and large horn spectacles, which he pushes up over his forehead.
BORKMAN. [Changes his attitude and looks at FOLDAL with a half disappointed, half pleased expression.] Oh, is it only you?