Asta.
Oh, Alfred, how could you do that?
Allmers.
Well, you see—one tells one’s wife everything—very nearly.
Asta.
Yes, I suppose one does.
Allmers.
[As if awakening, clutches at his forehead and starts up.] Oh, how can I sit here and——
Asta.
[Rising, looks sorrowfully at him.] What is the matter?