John.[Sniffs the food.] Ah, very nice, that’s my special dish. [He feels the plate.] But you might have warmed up the plate.
Christine. Why, you’re even more particular than the Count himself, once you get going. [She draws her fingers caressingly through his hair.]
John.[Wickedly.] Ugh, you mustn’t excite me like that, you know jolly well how sensitive I am.
Christine. There, there now, it was only because I love you.
John.[Eats. CHRISTINE gets out a bottle of beer.] Beer on Midsummer’s Night! Not for me, thank you. I can go one better than that myself. [He opens the sideboard and takes out a bottle of red wine with a yellow label.] Yellow label, do you see, dear? Just give me a glass. A wineglass, of course, when a fellow’s going to drink neat wine.
Christine.[Turns again toward the fireplace and puts a small saucepan on.] God pity the woman who ever gets you for a husband, a growler like you!
John. Oh, don’t jaw! You’d be only too pleased if you only got a fellow like me, and I don’t think for a minute that you’re in any way put out by my being called your best boy. [Tastes the wine.] Ah! very nice, very nice. Not quite mellowed enough though, that’s the only thing. [He warms the glass with his hand.] We bought this at Dijon. It came to four francs the liter, without the glass, and then there was the duty as well. What are you cooking there now? It makes the most infernal stink?
Christine. Oh, that’s just some assafoetida, which Miss Julie wants to have for Diana.
John. You ought to express yourself a little more prettily, Christine. Why have you got to get up on a holiday evening and cook for the brute? Is it ill, eh?
Christine. Yes, it is. It slunk out to the dog in the courtyard, and there it played the fool, and the young lady doesn’t want to know anything about it, do you see?