John.[Evasively.] As you won’t understand me, Miss, I must express myself more clearly. It doesn’t look well to prefer one of your inferiors to others who expect the same exceptional honor.
Julie. Prefer? What idea is the man getting into his head? I am absolutely astonished. I, the mistress of the house, honor my servants’ dance with my presence, and if I actually want to dance I want to do it with a man who can steer, so that I haven’t got the bore of being laughed at.
John. I await your orders, miss; I am at your service.
Julie.[Softly.] Don’t talk now of orders, this evening we’re simply merry men and women at a revel, and we lay aside all rank. Give me your arm; don’t be uneasy, Christine, I’m not going to entice your treasure away from you.
[JOHN offers her his arm and leads her through the glass door. CHRISTINE alone. Faint violin music at some distance to schottische time. CHRISTINE keeps time with the music, clears the table where JOHN had been eating, washes the plate at the side-table, dries it and puts it in the cupboard. She then takes off her kitchen apron, takes a small mirror out of the table drawer, puts it opposite the basket of lilacs, lights a taper, heats a hairpin, with which she curls her front hair; then she goes to the glass door and washes, comes back to the table, finds the young lady’s handkerchief, which she has forgotten, takes it and smells it; she then pensively spreads it out, stretches it fiat’ and folds it in four. JOHN comes back alone through the glass door.]
John. Yes, she is mad, to dance like that; and everybody stands by the door and grins at her. What do you say about it, Christine?
Christine. Ah, it’s just her time, and then she always takes on so strange. But won’t you come now and dance with me?
John. You aren’t offended with me that I cut your last dance?
Christine. No, not the least bit; you know that well enough, and I know my place besides.
John.[Puts his hand, round her waist.] You’re a sensible girl, Christine, and you’d make an excellent housekeeper.