Adolf. Hasn’t he hit the mark?
Thekla. How can I tell?—the face is lacking. [She drapes the figure.]
Adolf. Quite so—but all the rest? Nice?
Thekla.[Taps him caressingly on the cheek.] Will he shut up? Otherwise I’ll kiss him. [She goes behind him; ADOLF defending himself.]
Adolf. Look out, look out, anybody might come.
Thekla.[Nestling close to him.] What do I care! I’m surely allowed to kiss my own husband. That’s only my legal right.
Adolf. Quite so, but do you know the people here in the hotel take the view that we’re not married because we kiss each other so much, and our occasional quarrelling makes them all the more cocksure about it, because lovers usually carry on like that.
Thekla. But need there be any quarrels? Can’t he always be as sweet and good as he is at present? Let him tell me. Wouldn’t he like it himself? Wouldn’t he like us to be happy?
Adolf. I should like it, but
Thekla.[With a step to the right.] Who put it into his head not to paint any more?