John. Sweden—the Italian lakes, you’ve never been there, have you?
Julie. No; is it nice there?
John. Oh! A perpetual summer—oranges, laurels. Whew!
Julie. What are we to start doing afterward?
John. We shall start a first-class hotel there, with first-class visitors.
Julie. An hotel?
John. That’s a life, to be sure, you take it from me—an endless succession of new sights, new languages; not a minute to spare for sulking or brooding; not looking for work, for the work comes of its own. The bell goes on ringing day and night, the train puffs, the omnibus comes and goes, while the gold pieces roll’ into the till. That’s a life, to be sure!
Julie. Yes, that’s what you call life; but what about me?
John. The mistress of the house, the ornament of the firm, with your appearance and your manners—oh! success is certain. Splendid! You sit like a queen in the counting house, and set all your slaves in motion, with a single touch of your electric bell; the visitors pass in procession by your throne, lay their treasure respectfully on your table; you’ve got no idea how men tremble when they take a bill up in- their hand—I’ll touch up the bills, and you must sugar them with your sweetest laugh. Ah, let’s get away from here. [He takes a time-table out of his pocket.] Right away by the next train, by six-thirty we’re at Malmo; at eight-forty in the morning at Hamburg; Frankfort—one day in Basle and in Como by the St. Gothard Tunnel in—let’s see—three days. Only three days.
Julie. That all sounds very nice, but, John, you must give me courage, dear. Tell me that you love me, dear; come and take me in your arms.