I? Far be it from me to—–
[Quickly.] Of course Lars goes with us—with the dogs.
I feel no curiosity as to the movements of Mr. Lars and his dogs. [Changing the subject.] Would you not rather sit properly on the seat?
[Drowsily.] No, thank you. I’m lying so delightfully in the soft heather.
I can see that you are tired.
[Yawning.] I almost think I’m beginning to feel tired.
You don’t notice it till afterwards—when the excitement is over—–
[In a drowsy tone.] Just so. I will lie and close my eyes.
[A short pause.
[With sudden impatience.] Ugh, Rubek—how can you endure to sit there listening to these children’s screams! And to watch all the capers they are cutting, too!
There is something harmonious—almost like music—in their movements, now and then; amid all the clumsiness. And it amuses me to sit and watch for these isolated moments—when they come.
[With a somewhat scornful laugh.] Yes, you are always, always an artist.
And I propose to remain one.
[Lying on her side, so that her back is turned to him.] There’s not a bit of the artist about him.
[With attention.] Who is it that’s not an artist?
[Again in a sleepy tone.] Why, he—the other one, of course.
The bear-hunter, you mean?
Yes. There’s not a bit of the artist about him—not the least little bit.
[Smiling.] No, I believe there’s no doubt about that.
[Vehemently, without moving.] And so ugly as he is! [Plucks up a tuft of heather and throws it away.] So ugly, so ugly! Isch!