Your poor dear papa was not impeccable—far from it. I am—which makes all the difference. I have here a letter giving Krogstad the sack. One of the conveniences of living close to the Bank is, that I can use the housemaids as Bank-messengers. [Goes to door and calls.] Ellen! [Enter parlourmaid.] Take that letter—there is no answer. [Ellentakes it and goes.] That's settled—and now, Nora, as I am going to my private room, it will be a capital opportunity for you to practise the tambourine—thump away, little lark, the doors are double!

[Nods to her and goes in, shutting door.

[Stroking her face.] How am I to get out of this mess? [A ring at the visitors' bell.] Dr. Rank's ring! He shall help me out of it! [Dr. Rankappears in doorway, hanging up his great-coat.] Dear Dr. Rank, how are you?

[Takes both his hands.

[Sitting down near the stove.] I am a miserable, hypochondriacal wretch—that's what I am. And why am I doomed to be dismal? Why? Because my father died of a fit of the blues! Is that fair—I put it to you?

Do try to be funnier than that! See, I will show you the flesh-coloured silk tights that I am to wear to-night—it will cheer you up. But you must only look at the feet—well, you may look at the rest if you're good. Aren't they lovely? Will they fit me, do you think?

[Gloomily.] A poor fellow with both feet in the grave is not the best authority on the fit of silk