This page needs to be proofread.
Allmers.
Why, you can reckon it out for yourself—you that are so clever. In eight-and-twenty hours—nine-and-twenty hoursLet me see! Let me see!
Asta.
[Shrieking and stopping her ears.] Alfred!
Allmers.
[Clenching his hand firmly upon the table.] Can you conceive the meaning of a thing like this?
Asta.
[Looks at him.] Of what?
Allmers.
Of this that has been done to Rita and me.
Asta.
The meaning of it?
Allmers.
[Impatiently.] Yes, the meaning, I say. For, after all, there must be a meaning in it. Life, existence—destiny, cannot be so utterly meaningless.
Asta.
Oh, who can say anything with certainty about these things, my dear Alfred?
Allmers.
[Laughs bitterly.] No, no; I believe you are right there. Perhaps the whole thing goes sim-
