[A spacious garden-room, with one door to the left, and two doors to the
right. In the middle of the room a round table, with chairs about it. On
the table lie books, periodicals, and newspapers. In the foreground to
the left a window, and by it a small sofa, with a worktable in front of
it. In the background, the room is continued into a somewhat narrower
conservatory, the walls of which are formed by large panes of glass. In
the right-hand wall of the conservatory is a door leading down into
the garden. Through the glass wall a gloomy fjord landscape is faintly
visible, veiled by steady rain.]
[ENGSTRAND, the carpenter, stands by the garden door. His left leg
is somewhat bent; he has a clump of wood under the sole of his boot.
REGINA, with an empty garden syringe in her hand, hinders him from
advancing.]
REGINA. [In a low voice.] What do you want? Stop where you are. You're
positively dripping.
ENGSTRAND. It's the Lord's own rain, my girl.
REGINA. It's the devil's rain, _I_ say.
ENGSTRAND. Lord, how you talk, Regina. [Limps a step or two forward into
the room.] It's just this as I wanted to say--
REGINA. Don't clatter so with that foot of yours, I tell you! The young
master's asleep upstairs.
ENGSTRAND. Asleep? In the middle of the day?
REGINA. It's no business of yours.