Theresa.—Listen, my man, why then are you telling me all this, and what are you bothering me for? When my husband comes, I’ll tell him to have nothing to do with you. I do not want you in my house. A man who spies on his neighbors for fifteen years is a shameless fellow.
Valenta.—Especially if he keeps quiet about it.
Theresa.—You know nothing at all, nothing.
Valenta.—Yes, I saw it.
Theresa.—From across there?
Valenta.—Yes. One afternoon, the doctor was down town and the servant girl was out of the house. You were alone. You sat here, your sewing in your hands, looking at an open door. Then from the adjoining room the young gentleman came in and looked at you so lovingly. I seem to see it even now. He held a cigar between his fingers and sat down (does likewise) on the edge of this table.
Theresa.—Why do you remind me of it?
Valenta.—So you’d know that I know it, Gnädige Frau. He stood here and talked and talked to you a long while. I was looking at you all the time and was getting tired of it. He had talked to you in that way many a time before, and then quietly went away. But on this particular day when he stood against the table he spoke so vehemently
Theresa.—Be silent!
Valenta.—Well, I am not saying anything, not a word. You resisted him as much as you could. I can’t deny that—but in the end
Theresa.—Keep still, you wretch!
Valenta (coming nearer to her).—Well, Gnädige Frau, you put in a good word for me with the doctor—and you will see how discreet I can be—an old veteran like myself—believe me, I can’t even remember such little trifles—but you reminded me of it with your excitement. Who’d think of it—What’s happened, has happened, now we must be good friends and help each other.
