Nora (coaxing).  Oh, TORVALD, if only you won’t dismiss KROGSTAD, you can’t think how your little lark would jump about and twitter!

Helmer.  The inducement would be stronger but for the fact that, as it is, the little lark is generally engaged in that particular occupation.  And I really must get rid of KROGSTAD.  If I didn’t, people would say I was under the thumb of my little squirrel here, and then KROGSTAD and I knew each other in early youth; and when two people knew each other in early youth—­(a short pause)—­h’m!  Besides, he will address me as, “I say, TORVALD”—­which causes me most painful emotion!  He is tactless, dishonest, familiar, and morally ruined—­altogether not at all the kind of person to be a Cashier in a Bank like mine.

[Illustration:  “A poor fellow with both feet in the grave is not the best authority on the fit of silk stockings.”]

Nora.  But he writes in scurrilous papers,—­he is on the staff of the Norwegian Punch.  If you dismiss him, he may write nasty things about you, as wicked people did about poor dear Papa!

Helmer.  Your poor dear Papa was not impeccable—­far from it.  I am—­which makes all the difference.  I have here a letter giving KROGSTAD the sack.  One of the conveniences of living close to the Bank is, that I can use the housemaids as Bank-messengers. (Goes to door and calls.) ELLEN! (Enter parlourmaid.) Take that letter—­there is no answer. (ELLEN takes it and goes.) That’s settled—­so now, NORA; as I am going to my private room, it will be a capital opportunity for you to practise the tambourine—­thump away, little lark, the doors are double! [Nods to her and goes in, shutting door.

Nora (stroking her face).  How am I to get out of this mess! (A ring at the Visitors’ bell.) Dr. RANK’s ring! He shall help me out of it! (Dr. RANK appears in doorway, hanging up his great-coat.) Dear Dr. RANK, how are you? [Takes both his hands.

Rank (sitting down near the stove).  I am a miserable, hypochondriacal wretch—­that’s what I am.  And why am I doomed to be dismal?  Why?  Because my father died of a fit of the blues! Is that fair—­I put it to you?

Nora.  Do try to be funnier than that!  See, I will show you the flesh-coloured silk tights that I am to wear to-night—­it will cheer you up.  But you must only look at the feet—­well, you may look at the rest if you’re good. Aren’t they lovely?  Will they fit me, do you think?

Rank (gloomily).  A poor fellow with both feet in the grave is not the best authority on the fit of silk stockings.  I shall be food for worms before long—­I know I shall!

Nora.  You mustn’t really be so frivolous!  Take that! (She hits him lightly on the ear with the stockings; then hums a little.) I want you to do me a great service, Dr. RANK. (Rolling up stockings,) I always liked you.  I love TORVALD most, of course—­but, somehow, I’d rather spend my time with you—­you are so amusing!