We’ve been in constant feud; We’ve changed hard blows enough. You fought—alone— For a sublime ideal; I as one Among the money-grubbing multitude. And yet it seemed as if a chord united Us two, as if a thousand thoughts that lay Deep in my own youth’s memory benighted Had started at your bidding into day. Yes, I amaze you. But this hair grey-sprinkled Once fluttered brown in spring-time, and this brow, Which daily occupation moistens now With sweat of labour, was not always wrinkled. Enough; I am a man of business, hence— FALK [_with gentle sarcasm_]. You are the type of practical good sense. GULDSTAD. And you are hope’s own singer young and fain. [_Stepping between them._ Just therefore, Falk and Svanhild, I am here. Now let us talk, then; for the hour is near Which brings good hap or sorrow in its train. FALK [_in suspense_]. Speak, then! GULDSTAD [_smiling_]. My ground is, as I said last night, A kind of poetry— FALK. In practice. GULDSTAD [_nodding slowly_]. Right! FALK. And if one asked the source from which you drew—? GULDSTAD. [_Glancing a moment at_ SVANHILD, _and then turning again to_ FALK. A common source discovered by us two. SVANHILD. Now I must go. GULDSTAD. No, wait till I conclude. I should not ask so much of others. You, Svanhild, I’ve learnt to fathom thro’ and thro’; You are too sensible to play the prude. I watched expand, unfold, your little life; A perfect woman I divined within you, But long I only saw a daughter in you;— Now I ask of you—will you be my wife? [SVANHILD _draws back in embarrassment._ FALK [_seizing his arm_]. Hold! GULDSTAD. Patience; she must answer. Put your own Question;—then her decision will be free. FALK. I—do you say? GULDSTAD [_looking steadily at him_].