Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 9).djvu/207

 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.