Mrs. Ulrica. Nay, nay, nay,—(eagerly)—you won’t go—I’ll be back.
Enter Footman.
Footman Ma’am! Mrs. Ulrica! the key of the blue press.
Mrs. Ulrica. The key of the blue press—I had it in my hand just now—I gave it—I—(looks amongst a bunch of keys, and then all round the room)—I know nothing at all about it, I tell you—I must drink my tea, and I will—{Exit Footman}. ‘Tis a sin to scold on such a night as this, if one could help it—Well, Mr. Christiern, so the coffee-pot’s my master.
Christiern. And the sugar-basin—why here’s a key in the sugar-basin.
Mrs. Ulrica. Lord bless me! ‘tis the very key, the key of the blue press—why dear me—(feels in her pocket)—and here are the sugar tongs in my pocket, I protest—where was my poor head? Hers, Thomas! Thomas! here’s the key; take it, and don’t say a word for your life, if you can help it; you need not come in, I say—(she holds the door—the footman pushes in).
Footman. But, ma’am, I have something particular to say.
Mrs. Ulrica. Why, you’ve always something particular to say—is it any thing about my master?
Footman. No, but about your purse, ma’am.
Mrs. Ulrica. What of my purse?