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Late evening. Rebecca West stands by a lighted lamp, with a shade over it, packing sandwiches, &c., in a reticule, with a faint smile. The antimacassar is on the sofa. Enter Rosmer.

Rosmer.

[Seeing the sandwiches, &c.] Sandwiches? Then you are going! Why, on earth—I can't understand!

Rebecca.

Dear, you never can. Rosmershölm is too much for me. But how did you get on with Kroll?

Rosmer.

We have made it up. He has convinced me that the work of ennobling men was several sizes too large for me—so I am going to let it alone——

Rebecca.

[With her faint smile.] There I almost think, dear, that you are wise.

Rosmer.

[As if annoyed.] What, so you don't believe in me either, Rebecca—you never did!

[Sits listlessly on chair.

Rebecca.

Not much, dear, when you are left to yourself—but I've another confession to make.

Rosmer.

What, another? I really can't stand any more confessions just now!

Rebecca.

[Sitting close to him.] It is only a little one. I bullied Beata into the mill-race—because of a wild uncontrollable—— [Rosmer moves uneasily.] Sit still, dear—uncontrollable fancy—for you!

Rosmer.

[Goes and sits on sofa.] Oh, my goodness, Rebecca—you mustn't, you know!

[He jumps up and down as if embarrassed.