Ingolf.  Kristrun!  Is it quite impossible to talk seriously with you?  Is there nothing so sacred to you that you wouldn’t ridicule it?

Kristrun.  Well—?

Ingolf.  No, I suppose there is not.

Kristrun. ...  Perhaps more than you think.

Ingolf.  Why do you let me suffer, then?  Haven’t I confessed my love to you?

Kristrun.  No, you haven’t.

Ingolf [sits down at her side.  While he speaks she sits erect in the chair, her hands folded in her lap, her head raised.  A bright smile plays on her half-open lips.  It is as if she were listening to a beautiful tale].  Are you waiting for me to say just the words:  I love you!  Weren’t there moments when I made a greater confession, when one sigh, one glance, told you more than these words?  But you are not satisfied with hearing a love like the fluttering of wings in the dead of night, you want to hear it sound like a clarion call in your ears:  I love you, I love you! ...  To-day I saw you standing at the piano, there; each feature in your face was in repose, each move blended softly into fine lines.  I saw you as one of those works of art of an ancient master, which could lure the infidel to believe in the resurrection of the body.  What was my surprise, when I saw you move, and walk across the floor! ...  Even your dress, altering its folds with the rhythm of your step, becomes mysterious, like the sea—­floating, as it were, with life itself. ...  Only that fleeting sparkle from your eyes as you roll them upward ...  Or when you are lying down, and you stretch your foot out—­so supple, that the tension on your arch makes your instep seem higher ...  And then your everlasting vivacity:  when you laugh, the air seems to float with tiny fairies ...  I love you, Kristrun, only you, you, you. [Kristrun still gazes into space, dreamily.  Ingolf reaches hesitatingly for her hand; discreetly, she withdraws it.]

Ingolf [gets up].  Did you lie to me, Kristrun?  The other night, when I told you, without speaking, for the first time, just as plainly as now with words, that I loved you:  we heard footsteps, you ran away, you turned around and kissed me, and disappeared—­ did this sweet kiss then lie, was it only a moment’s impulse that played with a sacred feeling?

Kristrun.  It was not, Ingolf.

Ingolf.  But—?

Kristrun.  It was a moment’s impulse that played with a moment’s impulse.

Ingolf.  Perhaps for you, but not for me.

Kristrun.  I thought your silent confession that evening was sincere.  The next day, I overheard a conversation between you and Hrafnhild, you didn’t know I was there.  Perhaps she has noticed the change in you.  She used her voice, her intelligence, her beauty, her whole appeal, to get your caresses.  And she got them, many and warm.

Ingolf.  You yourself say that I have changed.  You yourself say that I love you.