Arnholm.
Yes, frankly, I have noticed as much.
Boletta.
But there’s really not a word of truth in it, you know—not for us who live here constantly. What is it to us that the great outside world passes our doors on its way to the midnight sun? We cannot join in the stream. There is no midnight sun for us. Oh no; we must be content to linger our lives out, here in our carp-pond.
Arnholm.
[Seats himself besides her.] Tell me now, dear Boletta—I wonder if there is not something or other,—some particular thing I mean—that you are all the time longing for, here at home?
Boletta.
Well, perhaps there may be.
Arnholm.
Then what is it? What are you longing for?