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 simply by hap-hazard—taking its own course, like a drifting wreck without a rudder. I daresay that is how it is. At least, it seems very like it.