BORKMAN. [Harshly and decisively.] You are no poet, Vilhelm. FOLDAL. [Unconsciously folding his hands.] Do you say that in sober earnest? BORKMAN. [Dismissing the subject, without answering.] We are only wasting each other's time. You had better not come here again. FOLDAL. Then you really want me to leave you? BORKMAN. [Without looking at him.] I have no longer any use for you. FOLDAL. [Softly, taking his portfolio.] No, no, no; I daresay not. BORKMAN. Here you have been lying to me all the time. FOLDAL. [Shaking his head.] Never lying, John Gabriel. BORKMAN. Have you not sat here feeding me with hope, and trust, and confidence--that was all a lie? FOLDAL. It wasn't a lie so long as you believed in my vocation. So long as you believed in me, I believed in you. BORKMAN. Then we have been all the time deceiving each other. And perhaps deceiving ourselves--both of us. FOLDAL. But isn't that just the essence of friendship, John Gabriel? BORKMAN. [Smiling bitterly.] Yes, you are right there. Friendship means--deception. I have learnt that once before. FOLDAL. [Looking at him.] I have no poetic vocation! And you could actually say it to me so bluntly. BORKMAN.