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Lyngstrand.
[Standing on the lowest of the verandah steps.] Why, what a splendid show of flowers you have here!
Boletta.
Yes, doesn't it look nice?
Lyngstrand.
Oh, charming. It looks as if the day were some family festival.
Hilda.
So it is.
Lyngstrand.
I guessed as much. Your father's birthday, I suppose?
Boletta.
[Warningly to Hilda.] H'm,—h'm!
Hilda.
[Not heeding her] No, mother's.
Lyngstrand.
Oh indeed,—your mother's, is it?
Boletta.
[In a low, angry tone.] Now, Hilda!
Hilda.
[In the same tone.] Let me alone! [To Lyngstrand.] I suppose you're going home to lunch now?
Lyngstrand.
[Descending from the step.] Yes, I suppose I must see about getting something to eat.
