_Jean_. I will say it a thousand times--later on. But not here. And, above all, no sentimentality, or all is lost. We must keep cool like sensible people. (_He takes out a cigar, cuts the end, and lights it_.) Sit down there, and I will sit here, and then we can chat as if nothing had happened. _Julie_ (_in despair_). Oh, my God! Have you no feelings? _Jean_. I! Why, there is no one more sensitive than I, but I can command my feelings. _Julie_. A short time ago you would have kissed my shoe, and now---- Jean (_coldly_). Yes, before. But now we have something else to think about. They cannot flee without money. Jean suggests that she can steal the necessary sum in her father's room. He taunts her with her weakness until she robs her father. They prepare to leave the house. The girl wants to bring her greenfinch. Infuriated by her sentimentality, Jean snatches the bird from her and kills it. The man's brutality and meanness are suddenly revealed to her; her brain reels under the humiliation which she has brought upon herself. She hurls curses at the head of the impudent domestic. The morning has come, and Christine enters the kitchen on her way to church. The girl appeals to her, seeks her sympathy, but Christine's feelings of propriety are too shocked to allow of any pity for the fallen girl. She leaves them. The Count returns. They hear him in his room, know that he will discover the theft. His daughter is half demented with fear, remorse, shame; she is incapable of deciding what to do. Jean's servant conscience has been awakened by the arrival of his master. The Count is there to command, Jean to obey. And when Lady Julie wants him to tell her what to do he hands her a razor--with the complacency with which he might hand his mistress the riding-whip. She leaves the kitchen and kills herself. Such are the outlines of this painful play, the most "successful" of Strindberg's naturalistic dramas. Again we have a struggle between man and woman, but this time the opposites of class and blood are added to those of sex. The healthy egotism, the common instincts of self-preservation in the valet endow him with a physical stability against which Lady Julie's emotions break like foam against a rock. She goes, he remains. Like _The Admirable Crichton_, Jean knows that there must be masters and servants in this world of inequality, and, though his passions for once mastered his conviction, he is soundly submissive to social law and order. In Lady Julie, Strindberg has sketched the useless, unnatural, pleasure-loving, hysterical woman of the leisured classes whom he detests.