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Selma.
Nonsense; let me feel your pulse! You are burning. My dear Doctor, don't you think the fever will pass over?
Fieldbo.
Everything has its time.
Thora.
Would you rather have me freezing?
Selma.
No, a medium temperature is the best—ask my husband.
The Chamberlain.
[Enters from the garden.] The whole family gathered in secret conclave? That's not very polite to the guests.
Thora.
I am just going, father dear
The Chamberlain.
Aha, it is you the ladies are paying court to, Mr. Stensgård! I must look to this.
Thora.
[Softly to Fieldbo.] Remain here!
[She goes into the garden.
Erik.
[Offers Selma his arm.] Has Madame any objection?
Selma.
Come! [They go out to the right.
