"She's resting. But keep calm, Eduard, and don't let them hear you downstairs. There's a dinner-party."
"I don't care! I insist . . ."
"I insist that you keep quiet and don't make a scene . . ."
"Where is Emilie?"
"If you're quiet, you can speak to her. If you shout like that, so that you can be heard downstairs, I'll send a message to Papa."
Emilie, on tenterhooks, quivering in every nerve, stood up and opened the door:
"I am here," she said.
She stood in front of her husband. He was no longer the dapper nonentity; he stood there coarse, raving, like a clod-hopper:
"You're coming home with me!" he shouted. "This minute!"
"Eduard!" Louise entreated. "Don't shout. Come in."
She pushed him into Marianne's room.
"You're coming home!" he shouted again. "Are you coming? Are you coming?"
"No, I'm not," said Emilie.
"You're not?"
"No! I won't go back to you."
"You've got to!"
"I want a divorce."
"I don't; and you're coming home."
