John. She knows nothing. But, my God! What a sight you look.
Julie. What! How’d I look?
John. You’re as white as a corpse and, pardon my saying it, your face is dirty.
Julie. Then give me some water to wash—all right. [She goes to the washing-stand and washes her face and hands.] Give me a towel. Ah! the sun has risen.
John. And then the hobgoblin flies away.
Julie. Yes, a goblin has really been at work last night. Listen to me. Come with me. I’ve got the needful, John.
John.[Hesitating.] Enough?
Julie. Enough to start on. Come with me, I can’t travel alone to-day. Just think of it. Midsummer Day in a stuffy train, stuck in among a lot of people who stare at one; waiting about at stations when one wants to fly. No, I can’t do it! I can’t do it! And then all my memories, my memories of Midsummer’s Day when I was a child, with the church decorated with flowers—birch and lilac, the midday meal at a splendidly covered table, relatives and friends, the afternoon in the park, dancing and music, flowers and games. Ah! you can run away and run away, but your memories, your repentance and your pangs of conscience follow on in the luggage van.
John. I’ll come with you, but right away, before it’s too late. Now. Immediately.
Julie. Then get ready. [She takes up the bird cage.]