We really mustn’t keep you here, Friebe; my daughter expressly said, “send Friebe for me.”
Friebe.
H’m—tch—for all I care!
[Goes out through the kitchen door, making a contemptuous gesture.
Mrs Buchner.
Are you vexed with him?
Mrs Scholz.
I should think so. Tiresome idiot! If it hadn’t been for my husband—there, you see, that’s my husband all over.—This old snuffler—Nothing else would do, he must have him about the whole day, or else he wasn’t content. Did you ever know such a man?
[Enter Augusta from outside in haste and alarm: once inside, she shuts the glass door violently and throws herself against it as though to prevent some one from coming in.]