GULDSTAD.
Oh, never mind the sense—the sound's the thing.
MISS JAY [looking round].
But Svanhild, who was eagerest to hear—?
When Falk began, she suddenly took wing
And vanished—
ANNA [pointing towards the back].
No, for there she sits—I see her.
MRS. HALM [sighing].
That child! Heaven knows, she's past my comprehending!
MISS JAY.
But, Mr. Falk, I thought the lyric's ending
Was not so rich in—well, in poetry,
As others of the stanzas seemed to be.
STIVER.
Why yes, and I am sure it could not tax
Your powers to get a little more inserted—
FALK [clinking glasses with him].
You cram it in, like putty into cracks,
Till lean is into streaky fat converted.
STIVER [unruffled].
Yes, nothing easier—I, too, in my day
Could do the trick.
GULDSTAD.
Dear me! Were you a poet?
MISS JAY.
My Stiver! Yes!