Mopsa. I wonder how you can be so childish! (Smiling involuntarily.) It was a rich beautiful time; but it was all over when you married. I hope you have never mentioned all that nonsense to Spreta?
Alfred. I may have. One does tell one's wife some things—unintentionally. (Clutching his forehead.) But oh, how can I sit here and forget Little Mopsëman so completely? Have I no heart?
Mopsa. If you have lost it, I think I know where it is. And you must surely give your grief a rest occasionally, too.
Alfred. I mustn't. I won't. I will think of him.... By the way, are we to have dried fish for dinner again?... Oh, there I go once more—in the very middle of my agony—just when I want to be torturing myself unspeakably with this gnawing crushing regret! What a wonderfully realistic touch it is, though, eh? So dramatic! But after all, I have you, Mopsa. I'm so glad of that!
Mopsa (looking earnestly at him). Surely you mean dear Spreta—not me, Alfred?
Alfred. What relation is a wife to her husband? None whatever. Now you, Mopsa, you are very nearly a second cousin once removed, not quite—because our family is a thing so entirely apart. We have always had vowels (the very best vowels) for our initials, and the same coloured spectacles, and poor relations we invariably cut, and great thick works we never get really on with. You take after your mother, Kaia.
Mopsa. And my Aunt—she that was a Miss Rebecca West. I feel so irresistibly drawn to disturb other people's domestic harmony. But you must really forget me, and try to care for poor Spreta a little.
Alfred (vehemently). It's no use. I can't. You've entranced me so thoroughly. (Helplessly.) I knew you would! Do let me remain here with you!
[Seizes her hand.
Mopsa (looks warmly at him). Of course, if you really mean that, I cannot pretend that such comradeship is——Hush! let go my hand—there's somebody coming!