LITTLE MOPSËMAN.
THE SECOND ACT.
A little narrow glen, with a slope in the background, belonging to Alfred. Under the dripping trees a table and chairs, all made of thin birchstaves. Everything is sodden with wet, and mist-wreaths are driving about. Alfred Früyseck, dressed in a black mackintosh, sits dejectedly on a chair. Presently Mopsa Brovik comes down the slope cautiously behind, and touches his shoulder; Alfred jumps.
Mopsa. You shouldn't really sit about on damp seats in such miserable weather, Alfred. I have been hunting for you everywhere.
[Closing her umbrella with quiet significance.
Alfred (to himself). Run to earth! Oh, Lor'! (Aloud.) If you would only be kind enough to search for Mopsëman instead! I cannot unravel the mystery of his disappearance. There he was, just entering upon conscious intelligence—full of the infinite possibilities of performing poodlehood. I had charged myself with his education. After having been an usher at so many boarding-schools, I felt peculiarly fitted for such a task. And then a shady scoundrel has only to come his way with rats in a bag——!
Mopsa. But we don't in the least know how it really all came about.
Alfred. That infernal Varmint-Blök is at the bottom of it, you may depend upon that! Though what motive in the world—— (Quivering.) It's not as if Mopsëman would ever have faced a rat. He used to bolt at the mere sight of a blackbeetle even. The whole thing is so utterly meaningless, Mopsa. And yet, I suppose the order of the universe requires it.
Mopsa. Have you indulged in these abstruse philosophical speculations with Spreta?
Alfred (shakes his head hopelessly). She is so utterly incapable of—— (Mopsa nods.) I prefer discussing them with you. There is something unnatural in imparting confidences to a mere wife. What on earth have you got there?