Christiern. Why, ma’am, the field of battle; and let the coffee-pot be my master: here comes the enemy—
Enter Footman.
Footman. Mrs. Ulrica, more refreshments wanting for the dancers above.
Mrs. Ulrica. More refreshments!—more!—bless my heart, ‘tis an unpossibility they can have swallowed down all I laid out, not an hour ago, in the confectionary room.
Footman. Confectionary room! Oh, I never thought of looking there.
Mrs. Ulrica. Look ye there, now!—why, where did you think of looking, then?—in the stable, or the cockloft, hey?—{Exit Footman.}—But I can’t scold on such a night as this: their poor heads are all turned with joy; and my own’s scarce in a more properer condition—Well, I beg your pardon—pray go on—the coffee-pot is my master, and the candle’s the enemy.
Christiern. So, ma’am, here comes the enemy full drive, upon Count Helmaar.
{A call without of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!}
Mrs. Ulrica. Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!—can’t you do without Mrs. Ulrica one instant but you must call, call—(Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!)—Mercy on us, what do you want? I must go for one instant.
Christiern. And I must bid ye a good night.