BOLZ.

That's right, my son, so do, and mend thy ways.

[_Opening the door on the right._]

Kämpe, 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_ KÄMPE.

KÄMPE.

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.

KÄMPE (_who has seated himself comfortably_).