Say rather, sporting.
Oh! So you call this sport, do you?
Yes, I venture to take that liberty. It is the sort of sport I like best of all.
[Tossing her head.] Well—I must say! [After a pause; looks searchingly at him.] Why did you let the dogs loose up there?
[Blinking his eyes and smiling.] So that they too might do a little hunting on their own account, don’t you see?
There’s not a word of truth in that! It wasn’t for the dogs’ sake that you let them go.
[Still smiling.] Well, why did I let them go then? Let us hear.
You let them go because you wanted to get rid of Lars. He was to run after them and bring them in again, you said. And in the meant-time—. Oh, it was a pretty way to behave!
In the meantime?
[Curtly breaking off.] No matter!
[In a confidential tone.] Lars won’t find them. You may safely swear to that. He won’t come with them before the time’s up.
[Looking angrily at him.] No, I daresay not.
[Catching at her arm.] For Lars—he knows my—my methods of sport, you see.
[Eludes him, and measures him with a glance.] Do you know what you look like, Mr. Ulfheim?
I should think I’m probably most like myself.
Yes, there you’re exactly right. For you’re the living image of a faun.
Yes, precisely; a faun.
A faun! Isn’t that a sort of monster? Or a kind of a wood demon, as you might call it?
Yes, just the sort of creature you are. A thing with a goat’s beard and goat-legs. Yes, and the faun has horns too!