Elina.
May be so. I know not of what metal those women can have been made.
For the rest, you err in thinking ’twas your letter to my mother that aroused my soul’s hatred and bitterness against you. It is of older date.
Nils Lykke.
[Uneasily.] Of older date? What mean you?
Elina.
’Tis as you guessed:—your fame has gone before you, to Östråt, even as over all the land. Nils Lykke’s name is never spoken save with the name of some woman whom he has beguiled and cast off. Some speak it in wrath, others with laughter and wanton jeering at those weak-souled creatures. But through the wrath and the laughter and the jeers rings the song they have made of you, full of insolent challenge, like an enemy’s song of triumph.
’Tis all this together that has begotten my hate for you. You were ever in my thoughts, and ever I longed to meet you face to face, that you might learn that there are women on whom your subtle speeches are lost—if you should think to use them.
Nils Lykke.
You judge me unjustly, if you judge from what rumour has told of me. Even if there be truth in all you have heard,—you know not the causes behind it.—As a boy of seventeen I began my course of pleasure. I have lived full fifteen years since then. Light women granted me all that I would—even before the wish had shaped itself into a prayer; and what I offered them they seized with eager hands. You are the first woman that has flung back a gift of mine with scorn at my feet.