Ebeling.
May I present them to you, Fräulein Margot?
Margot.
Oh, dear me, no. The gardener who keeps you supplied might be offended.
Ebeling (laughing).
As you wish.
Margot.
And this is the inquisitional chair--where the poor secrets are dragged out?
Ebeling.
Quite the contrary! The secrets come forth of their own accord. I always have to say "stop."