The Flabby Gentleman.
and at our expense, too. [Holds up his finger reprovingly.] Oh, Madame Bertha, Madame Bertha!
Mrs. Sörby.
Yes, and there's not the least doubt that the seasons differ greatly. The old vintages are the finest.
The Short-sighted Gentleman.
Do you reckon me among the old vintages?
Mrs. Sörby.
Oh, far from it.
The Thin-haired Gentleman.
There now! But me, dear Mrs. Sörby?
The Flabby Gentleman.
Yes, and me? What vintage should you say that we belong to?
Mrs. Sörby.
Why, to the sweet vintages, gentlemen.
[She sips a glass of punch. The gentlemen laugh and flirt with her.
Werle.
Mrs. Sörby can always find a loop-hole—when she wants to. Fill your glasses, gentlemen! Pettersen, will you see to it! Gregers, suppose we have a glass together. [Gregers does not move.] Won't you join us, Ekdal? I found no opportunity of drinking with you at table.
[Gråberg, the Bookkeeper, looks in at the baize door.
