Gustav.  But later you developed her thoughts and educated her, didn’t you?

Adolph.  No, she stopped growing and I pushed on.

Gustav.  Yes, isn’t it strange that her “authoring” seemed to fall off after her first book—­or that it failed to improve, at least?  But that first time she had a subject which wrote itself—­for I understand she used her former husband for a model.  You never knew him, did you?  They say he was an idiot.

Adolph.  I never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time.  But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture of him. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the picture was correct.

Gustav.  I do!—­But why did she ever take him?

Adolph.  Because she didn’t know him well enough.  Of course, you never do get acquainted until afterward!

Gustav.  And for that reason one ought not to marry until—­ afterward.—­And he was a tyrant, of course?

Adolph.  Of course?

Gustav.  Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way] And you not the least.

Adolph.  I?  Who let my wife come and go as she pleases—­

Gustav.  Well, that’s nothing.  You couldn’t lock her up, could you?  But do you like her to stay away whole nights?

Adolph.  No, really, I don’t.

Gustav.  There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to tell the truth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it.

Adolph.  Ridiculous?  Can a man be ridiculous because he trusts his wife?

Gustav.  Of course he can.  And it’s just what you are already—­and thoroughly at that!

Adolph. [Convulsively] I!  It’s what I dread most of all—­and there’s going to be a change.

Gustav.  Don’t get excited now—­or you’ll have another attack.

Adolph.  But why isn’t she ridiculous when I stay out all night?

Gustav.  Yes, why?  Well, it’s nothing that concerns you, but that’s the way it is.  And while you are trying to figure out why, the mishap has already occurred.

Adolph.  What mishap?

Gustav.  However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took him only to get her freedom.  You see, a girl cannot have freedom except by providing herself with a chaperon—­or what we call a husband.

Adolph.  Of course not.

Gustav.  And now you are the chaperon.

Adolph.  I?

Gustav.  Since you are her husband.

(Adolph keeps a preoccupied silence.)

Gustav.  Am I not right?

Adolph. [Uneasily] I don’t know.  You live with a woman for years, and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, and then—­then you begin to think—­and there you are!—­Gustav, you are my friend.  The only male friend I have.  During this last week you have given me courage to live again.  It is as if your own magnetism had been poured into me.  Like a watchmaker, you have fixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again.  Can’t you hear, yourself, how I think more clearly and speak more to the point?  And to myself at least it seems as if my voice had recovered its ring.