Mr Punch's Pocket Ibsen - A Collection of Some of the Master's Best Known Dramas. F. Anstey

room tastefully filled with cheap Art-furniture. Gimcracks in an étagère: a festoon of chenille monkeys hanging from the gaselier. Japanese fans, skeletons, cotton-wool spiders, frogs and lizards, scattered everywhere about. Drain-pipes with tall dyed grasses. A porcelain stove decorated with transferable pictures. Showily-bound books in book-case. Window. The Visitor's bell rings in the hall outside. The hall-door is heard to open, and then to shut. Presently Nora walks in with parcels; a porter carries a large Christmas-tree after her—which he puts down. Nora gives him a shilling—and he goes out grumbling.

      Nora hums contentedly, and eats macaroons. Then Helmer puts his head out of his Manager's room, and Nora hides macaroons cautiously.

      Helmer.

      [Playfully.] Is that my little squirrel twittering—that my lark frisking in here?

      Nora.

      Ess! [To herself.] I have only been married eight years, so these marital amenities have not yet had time to pall!

      Helmer.

      [Threatening with his finger.] I hope the little bird has surely not been digging its beak into any macaroons, eh?

      Nora.

      [Bolting one, and wiping her mouth.] No, most certainly not. [To herself] The worst of being so babyish is—one does have to tell such a lot of taradiddles! [To Helmer.] See what I've bought—it's been such fun! [Hums.

      Helmer.

      [Inspecting parcels.] H'm—rather an expensive little lark!

      [Takes her playfully by the ear.

      Nora.

      Little birds like to have a flutter occasionally. Which reminds me—— [Plays with his coat-buttons.] I'm such a simple ickle sing—but if you are thinking of giving me a Christmas present, make it cash!

      Helmer.

      Just like your poor father, he always asked me to make it cash—he never made any himself! It's heredity, I suppose. Well—well!

      [Goes back to his Bank. Nora goes on humming.

      [Enter Mrs. Linden, doubtfully.

      Nora.

      What, Christina—why, how old you look! But then you are poor. I'm not. Torvald has just been made a Bank Manager. [Tidies the room.] Isn't it really wonderfully delicious to be well off? But of course, you wouldn't know. We were poor once, and, do you know, when Torvald was ill, I—[tossing her head]—though I am such a frivolous little squirrel, and all that, I actually borrowed £300 for him to go abroad. Wasn't that clever? Tra-la-la! I shan't tell you who lent it. I didn't even tell Torvald. I am such a mere baby I don't tell him everything. I tell Dr. Rank, though. Oh, I'm so awfully happy I should like to shout, "Dash it all!"

      Mrs. Linden.

      [Stroking her hair.] Do—it is a natural and innocent outburst—you are such a child! But I am a widow, and want employment. Do you think your husband could find me a place as clerk in his Bank? [Proudly.] I am an excellent knitter!

      Nora.

      That would really be awfully funny. [To Helmer, who enters.] Torvald, this is Christina; she wants to be a clerk in your Bank—do let her! She thinks such a lot of you. [To herself.] Another taradiddle!

      Helmer.

      She is a sensible woman, and deserves encouragement. Come along, Mrs. Linden, and we'll see what we can do for you.

      [He goes out through the hall with Mrs. Linden, and the front-door is heard to slam after them.

      Nora.

      [Opens door, and calls.] Now, Emmy, Ivar, and Bob, come in and have a romp with Mamma—we will play hide-and-seek. [She gets under the table, smiling in quiet satisfaction; Krogstad enters—Nora pounces out upon him.] Boo! … Oh, I beg your pardon. I don't do this kind of thing generally—though I may be a little silly.

"Boo!"

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      Krogstad.

      [Politely.] Don't mention it. I called because I happened to see your husband go out with Mrs. Linden—from which, being a person of considerable penetration, I infer that he is about to give her my post at the Bank. Now, as you owe me the balance of £300, for which I hold your acknowledgment, you will see the propriety of putting a stop to this little game at once.

      Nora.

      But I don't at all—not a little wee bit! I'm so childish, you know—why should I?

      [Sitting upright on carpet.