know--really. A great work like that. How on earth did you come to
think of it?

_Hedda_ (_suppressing an almost imperceptible smile_). Well, dear
GEORGE, you gave me a tolerably strong hint.

_George_. Me? Well, to be sure--that _is_ a joke! Why, I only said
that I envied him for writing such a book, and it would put me
entirely in the shade if it came out, and if anything was to happen to
it, I should never forgive myself, as poor LÖVBORG couldn't write it
all over again, and so we must take the greatest care of it! And then
I left it on a chair and went away--that was all! And you went and
burnt the book all up! Bless me, who _would_ have expected it?

_Hedda_. Nobody, you dear simple old soul! But I did it for your
sake--it was _love_, GEORGE!

_George_ (_in an outburst between doubt and joy_). HEDDA, you don't
mean that! Your love takes such queer forms sometimes, Yes, but
yes--(_laughing in excess of joy_), why, you _must_ be fond of me!
Just think of that now! Well, you _are_ fun, HEDDA! Look here, I must
just run and tell the housemaid that--she will enjoy the joke so, eh?

_Hedda_ (_coldly, in self-command_). It is surely not necessary, even
for a clever Norwegian man of letters in a realistic social drama, to
make quite such a fool of himself as all that?

_George_. No, that's true too. Perhaps we'd better keep it
quiet--though I _must_ tell Aunt JULIE--it will make her so happy to
hear that you burnt a manuscript on my account! And, besides, I should