Stensgård.
Yes, here! Here there are fine manners; life moves gracefully here; the very floors seem laid to be trodden only by lacquered shoes. Here the arm-chairs are deep and the ladies sink exquisitely into them. Here conversation moves lightly and elegantly, like a game at battledore; here no blunders come plumping in to make an awkward silence. Oh, Fieldbo—here I feel for the first time what distinction means! Yes, we have indeed an aristocracy of our own; a little circle; an aristocracy of culture; and to it I will belong. Don't you yourself feel the refining influence of this place? Don't you feel that wealth here loses its grossness? When I think of Monsen's money, I seem to see piles of fetid bank-notes and greasy mortgages—but here! here it is shimmering silver! And the people are the same. Look at the Chamberlain—what a fine high-bred old fellow!
Fieldbo.
He is indeed.
Stensgård.
And the son—alert, straightforward, capable!
Fieldbo.
Certainly.
Stensgård.
And then the daughter-in-law! Isn't she a pearl? Good God, what a rich, what a fascinating nature!
Fieldbo.
Thora—Miss Bratsberg has that too.
Stensgård.
Oh yes; but she is less remarkable.
