Lyngstrand.
A painter, you mean?
Ballested.
Yes.
Lyngstrand.
No, I am not. But I am going to be a sculptor. My name is Hans Lyngstrand.
Ballested.
Going to be a sculptor, are you? Well, well, sculpture, too, is a fine, gentleman-like art.—I fancy I've seen you in the street once or twice. Have you been staying here long?
Lyngstrand.
No, I have only been here a fortnight. But I hope I may be able to stay the whole summer.
Ballested.
To enjoy the gaieties of the season, eh?
Lyngstrand.
Well, rather to get up my strength a bit.
Ballested.
Not an invalid, I hope?
Lyngstrand.
Well, I'm what you might call a little bit of an invalid. Nothing to speak of, you know. It's only a sort of short-windedness in my chest.
Ballested.
Pooh—a mere trifle. Still, I would consult a good doctor, if I were you.
