Ebeling (_laughing against his will_). Tut, tut, my dear child, why so--all of a sudden? Margot. Because I inwardly shrug my shoulders at everything that goes by the name of Innocence. I keep thinking to myself, "You silly sheep, what do you know about it?"--Ah, and yet, I envy them! At the balls, I see everything as through a veil. The things that the men chatter about sound far, far away--oceans off. I always feel like saying, "Don't trouble about me. Go to that girl over there. She's stupid enough." And then--after I've come home--I weep, weep from sheer envy and utter boredom, weep until I have to turn my pillow.--And mamma? Mamma drags me from ball to ball: I mustn't be unlike the others, you know! Ebeling. My dear child, if this goes against your nature, why don't you make some resistance? Why don't you show your mother that you have thoughts and feelings of your own which must be respected? Margot. Ah, my dear Herr Ebeling, just be a whipped dog yourself, year in year out! The dog doesn't resist either--but suddenly, some day--when he's at the very end of his endurance--he bites his master's hand. I shall bite soon! Ebeling. Oh, I'll grant you that your mother has probably made some mistakes. But only out of love, or because she knew no better. Just ask yourself what would have become of you if you'd been left to yourself all this time? Margot. I should have been embittered just the same--you're right--but I should not have let myself fall. Ebeling. Who knows? Margot. Never! And I'll tell you something to prove it. Severely as I have been watched--and--surely there's nothing coquettish about me? Ebeling. Certainly not. Margot. You can believe me when I say that, in the general moral tone prevailing over our society just now--and of which our mothers naturally know nothing--there lurks a temptation which has over and over again enticed even me. Such things are so personal, so secret--one cannot describe them. Oh, I could have done whatever I wished! But I said to myself: the first time, you were ignorant, you were sacrificed--or, at least, you can talk it into yourself that you were sacrificed--but if ever again--no, I can't say it after all! Ebeling. I understand, my child. Margot. If ever again--then you'll be lost--forever! Then there can be no more ideals, no more poetry--nothing lofty--nothing for which to work--and, worst of all, nothing of which to dream. For to dream--ah, one must dream, mustn't one? When one no longer has _that_!---- Ebeling (_moved_). Yes, dear child. Margot.