Gustav. Then—
Thekla. At nine. [A noise in the room on the right.] Who's in there making such a noise?
Gustav [goes to the right at the keyhole]. Let's have a look—the fancy table has been upset and there's a broken water-bottle on the floor, that's all. Perhaps some one has shut a dog up there. [He goes again toward her.] Nine o'clock, then?
Thekla. Right you are. I should only like him to see the fun—such a piece of deceit, and what's more, from a man that's always preaching truthfulness, who's always drilling into me to speak the truth. But stop—how did it all happen? He received me in almost an unfriendly manner—didn't come to the pier to meet me—then he let fall a remark over the pure boy on the steam-boat, which I pretended not to understand. But how could he know anything about it? Wait a moment. Then he began to philosophize about women—then you began to haunt his brain—then he spoke about wanting to be a sculptor, because sculpture was the art of the present day—just like you used to thunder in the old days.
Gustav. No, really?
[Thekla moves away from Gustav behind the sofa on the left.]
Thekla. "No, really?" Now I understand. [To Gustav.] Now at last I see perfectly well what a miserable scoundrel you are. You've been with him and have scratched his heart out of his body. It's you—you who've been sitting here on the sofa. It was you who've been suggesting all these ideas to him: that he was suffering from epilepsy, that he should live a celibate life, that he should pit himself against his wife and try to play her master. How long have you been here?
Gustav. Eight days.
Thekla. You were the man, then, I saw on the steamer?
Gustav [frankly]. It was I.