_]
Kaempe, can you come in a moment? (_To_ MILLER, _who is waiting at the
door._) Take that proof straight to the press!
[MILLER _takes the sheet from_ BELLMAUS _and hurries off._]
_Enter_ KAeMPE.
KAeMPE.
But I can't write anything decent while you are making such a noise.
BOLZ.
You can't? What have you just written, then? At most, I imagine, a
letter to a ballet-dancer or an order to your tailor.
BELLMAUS.
No, he writes tender letters. He is seriously in love, for he took me
walking in the moonlight yesterday and scorned the idea of a drink.
KAeMPE (_who has seated himself comfortably_).
Gentlemen, it is unfair to call a man away from his work for the sake
of making such poor jokes.
BOLZ.
Yes, yes, he evidently slanders you when he maintains that you love
anything else but your new boots and to some small degree your own
person. You yourself are a love-spurting nature, little Bellmaus. You
glow like a fusee whenever you see a young lady. Spluttering and smoky
you hover around her, and yet don't dare even to address her. But we
must be lenient with him; his shyness is to blame. He blushes in
woman's presence, and is still capable of lovely emotions, for he
started out to be a lyric poet.
BELLMAUS.
I don't care to be continually reproached with my poems. Did I ever
read them to you?
BOLZ.
No, thank Heaven, that audacity you never had. (_Seriously._) But,
now, gentlemen, to business. Today's number is ready.
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