Arnholm. What is it, dear?
Bolette. Oh! it's that poor (pointing}—see out there.
Arnholm. Is it your father?
Bolette. No. It's the young sculptor. He's down there with Hilde.
Arnholm. Oh, Lyngstrand! What's really the matter with him?
Bolette. Why, you know how weak and delicate he is.
Arnholm. Yes. Unless it's simply imaginary.
Bolette. No, it's real enough! He'll not last long. But perhaps that's best for him.
Arnholm. Dear, why should that be best?
Bolette. Because—because—nothing would come of his art anyhow. Let's go before they come.