FALK. O no, the author is a friend of mine, And your acquaintance also, I daresay. The knave’s a dashing writer, never doubt. Only imagine, in a single day He’s worked a perfect little Idyll out. GULDSTAD [_slily_]. With happy ending, doubtless! FALK. You’re aware, No curtain falls but on a plighted pair. Thus with the Trilogy’s First Part we’ve reckoned; But now the poet’s labour-throes begin; The Comedy of Troth-plight, Part the Second, Thro’ five insipid Acts he has to spin, And of that staple, finally, compose Part Third,—or Wedlock’s Tragedy, in prose. GULDSTAD [_smiling_]. The poet’s vein is catching, it would seem. FALK. Really? How so, pray? GULDSTAD. Since I also pore And ponder over a poetic scheme,— [_Mysteriously._ An actuality—and not a dream. FALK. And pray, who is the hero of your theme? GULDSTAD. I’ll tell you that to-morrow—not before. FALK. It is yourself! GULDSTAD. You think me equal to it? FALK. I’m sure no other mortal man could do it. But then the heroine? No city maid, I’ll swear, but of the country, breathing balm? GULDSTAD [_lifting his finger_]. Ah,—that’s the point, and must not be betrayed!— [_Changing his tone._ Pray tell me your opinion of Miss Halm. FALK. O you’re best able to pronounce upon her; My voice can neither credit nor dishonour,— [_Smiling._ But just take care no mischief-maker blot This fine poetic scheme of which you talk. Suppose I were so shameless as to balk The meditated climax of the plot? GULDSTAD [_good-naturedly_]. Well, I would cry “Amen,” and change my plan. FALK. What! GULDSTAD. Why, you see, you are a letter’d man; How monstrous were it if your skill’d design Were ruined by a bungler’s hand like mine! [_Retires to the background._ FALK [_in passing, to_ LIND].