Lise. No, that’s enough. Helen, do you know—who I am? Well—I—am your sister.
Daughter. You What can you mean?
Lise. We have—the same father.
Daughter. And you are my sister, my little sister? But what is my father then? But of course he must be captain of a yacht, because your father is one. How silly I am! But then he married, after. Is he kind to you? He wasn’t to my mother.
Lise. You don’t know. But aren’t you awfully glad to have found a little sister— one too who isn’t so very loud?
Daughter. Oh, rather, I’m so glad that I really don’t know what to say. [Embrace.] But I really daren’t be properly glad because I don’t know what’s going to happen after all this. What will mother say, and what will it be like if we meet papa?
Lise. Just leave your mother to me. She can’t be far away now. And you keep in the background till you are wanted. And now come and give me a kiss, little ’un. [They kiss.]
Daughter. My sister. How strange the word sounds, just like the word father when one has never uttered it.
Lise. Don’t, let’s go on chattering now, but let’s stick to the point. Do you think that your mother would still refuse her permission if we were to invite you—to come and see your sister and your father?
Daughter. Without my mother? Oh, she hates your—my father so dreadfully.