Borkman.
[Pacing up and down and growling.] Goodnight. Frida. Do you mind if I run down by the winding stair? It's the shortest way. Borkman. Oh, by all means; take whatever stair you please, so far as I am concerned. Good-night to you! Frida. Good-night, Mr. Borkman. [She goes out by the little tapestry door in the back on the left.
[{{small caps|Borkman</sc>, lost in thought, goes up to the piano, and is about to close it, but changes his mind. Looks round the great empty room, and sets to pacing up and down it from the corner beside the piano to the corner at the back on the right—pacing backward and forward uneasily and incessantly. At last he goes up to the writing-table, listens in the direction of the folding door, hastily snatches up a hand-glass, looks at himself in it, and straightens his necktie.
[A knock at the folding door. Borkman hears it, looks rapidly towards the door, but says nothing.
[In a little there comes another knock, this time louder.
