Aunt Clara. (after a short silence, significantly). And do you sometimes still think of Antonie, Paul?
Paul (meditating). Antoinette?... Oh yes, sometimes.
Aunt Clara. Now do be frank, Paul! Has the thought never come to you that you would really like to have Antonie?
Paul (absent-minded). Who? I have her?
Aunt Clara. Why Paul? You have her and she have you! Didn't you really care for each other a bit?
Paul (as before, supporting his head on his hand). Do you think so? That is so long ago? Possibly. What do I know about it? (He sits up.)
Aunt Clara. We were always in the habit of saying they'll make a fine couple when they are big, you and Antonie.
Paul (almost painfully). You see, Auntie, what mistakes one can make. Nothing can be determined beforehand. But I almost think you are right. I liked her quite well, once upon a time. Something like that begins to dawn on me. A big, stupid, love-sick lubber. That's me. And she ... What was she? (With the suggestion of a smile.) A remarkably beautiful, sweet young thing with ashy-blond braids. Yes, yes, something like that dawns upon me. She did have splendid ashy-blond hair and dark eyes. (He leans his head on his hand.)
Aunt Clara. How well you still remember that.