neckcloth. Ragnar Brovik is a well-dressed, light-haired man in his thirties, with a slight stoop. Kaia Fosli is a slightly built girl, a little over twenty, carefully dressed, and delicate-looking. She has a green shade over her eyes.—All three go on working for some time in silence.
Knut Brovik.
[Rises suddenly, as if in distress, from the table; breathes heavily and laboriously as he comes forward into the doorway.] No, I can't bear it much longer!
Kaia.
[Going up to him.] You are feeling very ill this evening, are you not, uncle?
Brovik.
Oh, I seem to get worse every day.
Ragnar.
[Has risen and advances.] You ought to go home, father. Try to get a little sleep
Brovik.
[Impatiently.] Go to bed, I suppose? Would you have me stifled outright?
Kaia.
Then take a little walk.
Ragnar.
Yes, do. I will come with you.
Brovik.
[With warmth.] I will not go till he comes! I
