John. Family shame, you mean. But, look here, I told you so; people shouldn’t drink, because then people talk nonsense, and people shouldn’t talk nonsense.
Julie. Oh, how I wish it undone, how I wish it undone! And if you only loved me!
John. For the last time—what do you want? Do you want me to cry, do you want me to jump over your riding whip, do you want me to kiss you, or tempt you away for three weeks by the Lake of Como, and then, what am I to do?—what do you want? The thing’s beginning to be a nuisance, but that’s what one gets for meddling in the private affairs of the fair sex. Miss Julie, I see you’re unhappy, I know that you suffer, but I can’t understand you. People like us don’t go in for such fairy tales; we don’t hate each other either. We take love as a game, when our work gives us time off, but we haven’t got the whole day and the whole night to devote to it. Let me look at you. You are ill; you are certainly ill!
Julie. You must be kind to me, and now talk like a man. Help me! Help me! Tell me what I must do—what course I shall take.
John. My Christ! If I only knew myself!
Julie. I am raving, I have been mad! But isn’t there any way by which I can be saved?
John. Stay here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything.
Julie. Impossible! The servants know it; and Christine knows it.
John. They don’t know and they would never believe anything of the kind.
Julie.[Slowly.] It might happen again.