Rita.
[Letting him go.] How I wish I could! [Looking at him with flashing eyes.] Oh, if you knew how I have hated you!
Allmers.
Hated me!
Rita.
Yes—when you shut yourself up in your room and brooded over your work—till long, long into the night. [Plaintively.] So long, so late, Alfred. Oh, how I hated your work!
Allmers.
But now I have done with that.
Rita.
[With a cutting laugh.] Oh yes! Now you have given yourself up to something worse.
Allmers.
[Shocked.] Worse! Do you call our child something worse?
Rita.
[Vehemently.] Yes, I do. As he comes between you and me, I call him so. For the book—the book was not a living being, as the child is. [With increasing impetuosity.] But I won't endure it, Alfred! I will not endure it—I tell you so plainly!
Allmers.
[Looks steadily at her, and says in a low voice.] I am often almost afraid of you, Rita.
