The sound of approaching country-folk forces Jean and Lady Julie to hide from their prying eyes. They do not wish to be found alone in the kitchen. Jean's room is near at hand and becomes their refuge, whilst the peasants make the kitchen the scene of their midsummer merry-making. When the kitchen is deserted, Lady Julie and Jean reappear. There is an autumnal chill in the air. For Lady Julie is no longer Lady Julie. The valet is master. They are both conscious of the monstrous breach of social etiquette which has been committed. And the grey dawn will not only bring the shame of day, but the home-coming of the Count. Jean is chivalrous. He proposes immediate flight to Switzerland or the Italian lakes. There, he thinks, they can start an hotel--a first-class hotel for first-class guests. He waxes enthusiastic over the joys of the hotel-owner. She will be mistress of the house, queen of the accounts, before whom the guests will humbly lay their gold. She cannot rise to his enthusiasm. She wants the comfort of love: _Julie_. That is all very fine. But, Jean, you must give me courage. Say that you love me. Come and take me in your arms. _Jean_ (_hesitating_). I would like to, but I dare not. Not here in this house. I love you without doubt. Can you doubt it? _Julie_ (_shyly, with true womanly feeling_). You! Say "thou" to me. Between us there are no longer any barriers. Say "thou." _Jean_ (_troubled_). I cannot. There are still barriers between us so long as we remain in this house. There is the past, there is the Count. I have never met anyone who compelled such respect from me. I have only to see his gloves lying on a chair to feel quite small. I have only to hear his bell, and I start like a shying horse. And when I now look at his boots, standing there so stiff and stately, it is as if something made my back bend. (_He kicks the boots_.) Superstition, prejudice which have been driven into us from childhood, but which may be as easily forgotten again. If you will only come into another country, into a republic, people will cringe before my porter's livery. People shall cringe, but I shall not cringe. I was not born to cringe, for there is stuff in me; there is character in me; and if once I grip the lowest branch, you shall watch me climb. To-day I am a lackey, but next year I am a proprietor; in ten years I shall be independent, and then I go to Roumania and get myself an order. I can--mark well I say I _can_--a count. _Julie_. Fine, fine! _Jean_. Ah, in Roumania a man can buy a count's title, and then you will be a countess--my countess. _Julie_. What do I care for what I have cast aside! Say that you love me, or else--ah, what am I else?