Christiern (aside). ‘Tis the one-and-twentieth time I’ve told the story to-day; but no matter. (Aloud) Why, then, madam, the long and the short of the story is—
Mrs. Ulrica. Oh, pray, let it be the long, not the short of the story, if you please: a story can never be too long for my taste, when it concerns my master—‘tis, as one may say, fine spun sugar, the longer the finer, and the more I relish it—but I interrupt you, and you eat none of my cake—pray go on—(A call behind the scenes of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!)—Coming!—coming!—patience.
Christiern. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might be, here—just please to look; I’ve drawn the field of battle for you here, with coffee, on the table—and you shall be the enemy.
Mrs. Ulrica. I!—no—I’ll not be the enemy—my master’s enemy!
Christiern. Well, I’ll be the enemy.
Mrs. Ulrica. You!—Oh no, you sha’n’t be the enemy.
Christiern. Well, then, let the cake be the enemy.
Mrs. Ulrica. The cake—my cake!—no, indeed.
Christiern. Well, let the candle be the enemy.
Mrs. Ulrica. Well, let the candle be the enemy; and where was my master, and where are you—I don’t understand—what is all this great slop?