Rita.
[Half laughing, half vexed.] If you begin all that rubbish again, I shall beat you.
Asta.
[Looking sorrowfully at him.] But the book, Alfred?
Allmers.
It began, as it were, to drift away from me. But I was more and more beset by the thought of the higher duties that laid their claims upon me.
Rita.
[Beaming, seizes his hand.] Alfred!
Allmers.
The thought of Eyolf, my dear Rita.
Rita.
[Disappointed, drops his hand.] Ah—of Eyolf!
Allmers.
Poor little Eyolf has taken deeper and deeper hold of me. After that unlucky fall from the table—and especially since we have been assured that the injury is incurable
Rita.
[Insistently.] But you take all the care you possibly can of him, Alfred!
Allmers.
As a schoolmaster, yes; but not as a father.
