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Arnholm.
What is the matter, dear?
Boletta.
Oh, it's that poor[Points.] Over there.
Arnholm.
Is it your father?
Boletta.
No, it's the young sculptor. He is walking over there with Hilda.
Arnholm.
Oh, Lyngstrand. Why should you trouble about him?
Boletta.
Oh you know how delicate and ill he is.
Arnholm.
Yes, if it isn't all his imagination.
Boletta.
No, it is real; he cannot live long. But perhaps it is best for him.
Arnholm.
How best for him, my dear?
Boletta.
Well because,—because I don't think much would come of his art in any case.—Let us go before they come.
