"He backs out cringingly.... Mopsëman slips out after him."
Alfred (speaking lower and seriously). Only in the eyes of the Philistines who couldn't see any pathos in poor Mrs. Solness and her nine dolls. The truly reverent have no sense whatever of the ridiculous. Still, it would certainly be better in future to keep Little Mopsëmann indoors, because if the dogs in the streets saw him in those clothes—(clenching his hands)—and after he has had that unfortunate accident to his tail, too!
Spreta. Alfred, I won't have you bringing up that again! There's someone knocking. Come in.
The Varmint-Blōk (enters softly and noiselessly. He is a slouching, sinister figure, in a fur cap and a flowered comforter. He has a large green gingham in one hand, and in the other a bag which writhes unpleasantly). Humbly beg pardon, your worships, but you don't happen to feel in the humour to see how this little wounded warrior here (points to Mopsëman) would polish off the lovely little ratikins, do you?
Alfred (with suppressed indignation). We most certainly do not. He is intended for higher things. Get out, you have frightened him under the sofa.
The Varm.-B. He'll come round right enough.... There, didn't I tell you! See how he sniffs at my legs. It's wonderful what a fancy dawgs do seem to take to me—follow me anywhere, they will. (With a chuckling laugh.) Seems as if they'd got to.
Spreta. There is certainly no accounting—— And what becomes of them when they do?
The Varm.-B. (with glittering eyes). Oh, they're safe enough, the sweet little creatures, lady. I'm very kind to 'em. And if I could only induce you to let your lovely poodlekin tackle a dozen rats, which 'ud be a holiday to a game little sportin' dawg like him—— Not this mornin'? then here's a loving good-day to you all, and thank ye kindly for nothing.
[He backs out cringingly, as Spreta retires to the verandah, fanning herself elegantly with her pocket-handkerchief; Mopsëman slips out after him, unnoticed by all. Alfred sees Mopsa's portfolio.