George.

What care I, so long as our friendship will not be broken.

Marie.

But why should it?

George.

It shall never be my fault, Marie.

Marie.

Certainly never mine. But what I wanted to say,--I had the large mahogany bookcase repolished. Is that satisfactory?

George.

Anything you choose to do is satisfactory to me.

Marie.

[_Hesitatingly_.] And then--I must tell you, George, something important. When I unpacked the bookcase, I found a blue ma.n.u.script.

George.

[_Unsuspecting_.] What kind of a ma.n.u.script?

Marie.

George, you must not leave that lying around--not even hidden behind the books, especially now, when you take your wife to your home.

George.

In heaven's name, what ma.n.u.script?

Marie.

I believe--it contains some poems----

George.

You believe--it contains some poems. I have missed it since early last winter; I thought I had lost it. Marie, now tell me truthfully, have you read its contents?

Marie.

N--no!

George.

Then why do you tell me not to leave it around?

Marie.

Well, I read the first part, and had begun on the second, when I concluded to go no further.

George.

And you really looked no further than the first? Absolutely no further?

Marie.

No.

George.

Can you swear to that?

Marie.

I can!

George.

Then swear!

Marie.

I swear! Are you satisfied?

George.

Yes, thank heaven! But you must not imagine for a moment that the book contains anything I am ashamed of; on the contrary, I consider it so sacred I would not have it desecrated by a stranger's eye. About four years ago, something occurred within me--within my soul. No one knows--no one could even guess, and no one shall ever know.

Marie.

No one? Not even I?

George.

No, not even you. But where is the book? Give it to me!

Marie.

[_Turns up stage and takes it from her bosom_.] Here it is.

George.