all right here. . . . And we can't take them with us there," he whispered, more gently. "Ssh! You're waking them."
"It will be quieter for them, perhaps, if you leave them here, dear," she said, kneeling on the floor beside him, feeling for his hand, with her eyes full of tears.
"No, no . . . that woman's brother down there . . . that cad . . ."
"But, Ernst," she said, more firmly, with her eyes on his, "dear Ernst, do let me tell you: they don't exist. They exist only in your imagination. You must really get rid of the idea: then you will be well again, quite well. . . . Ernst, dear Ernst, they don't exist. Do look round you: there's nothing to see but the room, your furniture, your books, your vases. There's nothing else, except our two selves. . . . Oh, Ernst, do try to see it: there's nothing. . . . That you feel as if you were suffocating comes from always being so much alone, never going out, never walking. At Nunspeet, we will walk . . . on the heath, over the dunes . . . and then you will get quite well again, Ernst. . . . For, honestly, you are ill. . . . There's nothing here, nothing. Look for yourself: there's only you and I . . . and your furniture and books. . . ."
He quietly let her talk; an ironical smile curled round his lips; and at last he gave her a glance of pitying contempt, gave a little shrug of his shoulders.
