Spreta (with increasing excitement). I saw that so plainly last night. I sent out for some champagne, Alfred, expressly for you. And you didn't drink a drop of it!
[Looks bitterly at him.
Alfred. I knew the brand. (With a gesture of repulsion.) Gooseberry, my dear, gooseberry!
Spreta. You never even kissed me, either. But you can kiss Mopsa! Alfred, if you imagine I am the kind of person to play gooseberry——
Alfred. Need dramatic dialogue descend to these sordid details? Really this is verging on a mere vulgar row! And when you know, too, how I have always regarded Mopsa almost as a sort of sister!
Spreta. I know that sort of sister, Alfred. She comes from Norway! But I am none of your fish-blooded Mrs. Solnesses, or half-witted Beata Rosmers, and I'm not going to stand it! I decline to share you with anything or anybody—whether it's a thick fat book that never gets even begun, or a designing minx that helps you in your precious "vocation," or a gorging little mongrel, with his evil red and green eyes, that I'm often tempted to wish at the bottom of the fiord!
[Confused cries and barks are heard outside.
Alfred (shocked). Spreta! When I am going to bring all his desires into harmony with his digestion! How unkind of you! (Looks out for a moment.) What in the world are all the dogs barking at down there?
San. Eng. Bloch. (re-entering with Mopsa, by glass door). Only some organ-grinder's monkey. They have just frightened it into the fiord. Such fun!
Alfred (in an agony of dread). Can it be our Little——? But he is burying bones in the back garden. And he is not a monkey, either. And if he were, monkeys can all swim.... What are they saying now?... Hush!