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Bernick.
[Advancing a step.] What we?
Lona.
Why, my boy and I, of course.
The Ladies.
[With a cry.] Your boy!
Hilmar.
What?
Rörlund.
Well, I must say
Mrs. Bernick.
Why, what do you mean, Lona?
Lona.
Of course I mean John; I have no other boy but John, that I know of—or Johan, as you call him.
Mrs. Bernick.
Johan!
Mrs. Rummel.
[Aside to Mrs. Lynge.] The prodigal brother.
Bernick.
[Hesitatingly.] Is Johan with you?
Lona.
Of course, of course; I would never travel without him. But you're all looking so dismal—and sitting here in this twilight, sewing at something white. There hasn't been a death in the family?
