scorn.] Or, no—it was little Eyolf. Little Eyolf, my dear! Allmers. Eyolf? Rita. Yes, you used to call her Eyolf, did you not? I seem to remember your telling me so—once, in a moment of confidence. [Coming up to him.] Do you remember it—that entrancingly beautiful hour, Alfred? Allmers. [Recoiling, as if in horror.] I remember nothing! I will not remember! Rita. [Following him.] It was in that hour—when your other little Eyolf was crippled for life! Allmers. [In a hollow voice, supporting himself against the table.] Retribution! Rita. [Menacingly.] Yes, retribution! [Asta and Borgheim return by way of the boat-shed. She is carrying some water-lilies in her hand.
Rita.
[With self-control.] Well, Asta, have you and Mr. Borgheim talked things thoroughly over?
