Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 7).djvu/42

 you can lay your hands on; but the moment you have it, it seems to slip through your fingers; you never know what becomes of it. Well, one must take you as you are. It's in the blood. Yes, Nora, that sort of thing is hereditary.

Nora.

I wish I had inherited many of papa's qualities.

Helmer.

And I don't wish you anything but just what you are—my own, sweet little song-bird. But I say—it strikes me you look so—so—what shall I call it?—so suspicious to-day

Nora.

Do I?

Helmer.

You do, indeed. Look me full in the face.

Nora.

[Looking at him.] Well?

Helmer.

[Threatening with his finger.] Hasn't the little sweet-tooth been playing pranks to-day?

Nora.

No; how can you think such a thing!

Helmer.

Didn't she just look in at the confectioner's?

Nora.

No, Torvald; really

Helmer.

Not to sip a little jelly?