Professor Rubek.
You were no model to me. You were the fountainhead of my achievement.
Irene.
[Is silent for a short time.] What poems have you made since? In marble I mean. Since the day I left you.
Professor Rubek.
I have made no poems since that day—only frittered away my life in modelling.
Irene.
And that woman, whom you are now living with?
Professor Rubek.
[Interrupting vehemently.] Do not speak of her now! It makes me tingle with shame.
Irene.
Where are you thinking of going with her?
Professor Rubek.
[Slack and weary.] Oh, on a tedious coasting-voyage to the North, I suppose.
Irene.
[Looks at him, smiles almost imperceptibly, and whispers.] You should rather go high up into the mountains. As high as ever you can. Higher, higher,—always higher, Arnold.
