Krogs. All right, then. I have here a letter, telling your husband all. I will take the liberty of dropping it in the letter-box at your hall-door as I go out. I'll wish you good evening! [He goes out; presently the dull sound of a thick letter dropping into a wire box is heard.
Nora (softly, and hoarsely). He's done it! How am I to prevent TORVALD from seeing it?
Helmer (inside the door, rattling). Hasn't my lark changed its dress yet? (NORA unbolts door.) What—so you are not in fancy costume, after all? (Enters with RANK.) Are there any letters for me in the box there?
Nora (voicelessly). None—not even a postcard! Oh, TORVALD, don't, please, go and look—promise me you won't! I do assure you there isn't a letter! And I've forgotten the Tarantella you taught me—do let's run over it. I'm so afraid of breaking down—promise me not to look at the letter-box. I can't dance unless you do.
Helmer (standing still, on his way to the letter-box). I am a man of strict business habits, and some powers of observation; my little squirrel's assurances that there is nothing in the box, combined with her obvious anxiety that I should not go and see for myself, satisfy me that it is indeed empty, in spite of the fact that I have not invariably found her a strictly truthful little dicky-bird. There—there. (Sits down to piano.) Bang away on your tambourine, little squirrel—dance away, my own lark!
Nora (dancing, with a long gay shawl). Just won't the little squirrel! Faster—faster! Oh, I do feel so gay! We will have some champagne for dinner, won't we, TORVALD? [Dances with more and more abandonment.
Helmer (after addressing frequent remarks in correction). Come, come—not this awful wildness! I don't like to see quite such a larky little lark as this ... Really it is time you stopped!
Nora (her hair coming down as she dances more wildly still, and swings the tambourine). I can't ... I can't! (To herself, as she dances.) I've only thirty-one hours left to be a bird in; and after that—(shuddering)—after that, KROGSTAD will let the cat out of the bag! [Curtain.
N.B.—The final Act,—containing scenes of thrilling and realistic intensity, worked out with a masterly insight and command of psychology, the whole to conclude with a new and original dénoûment—unavoidably postponed to a future number. No money returned.