Lyngstrand. Her? Who?
Bolette. She whom he marries. What is she to live for?
Lyngstrand. She, too, is to live for his art. It seems to me a woman must feel so thoroughly happy in that.
Bolette. Hm, I don't exactly know—
Lyngstrand. Yes, Miss Wangel, you may be sure of that. It is not merely all the honour and respect she enjoys through him; for that seems almost the least important to me. But it is this—that she can help him to create, that she can lighten his work for him, be about him and see to his comfort, and tend him well, and make his life thoroughly pleasant. I should think that must be perfectly delightful to a woman.
Bolette. Ah! You don't yourself know how selfish you are!
Lyngstrand. I, selfish! Good heavens! Oh, if only you knew me a little better than you do! (Bending closer to her.) Miss Wangel, when once I am gone—and that will be very soon now—
Bolette (looks pityingly at him). Oh, don't think of anything so sad!
Lyngstrand. But, really, I don't think it is so very sad.
Bolette. What do you mean?