SCHWARTZE.
[Lays his hand lightly on her shoulder.] Magda, we are here too.
MAGDA.
Yes, yes--I'm entirely--[Standing up, affectionately.] Dear old papa! How white you have become! Dear papa! [Taking his hand.] But what's the matter with your hand? It's trembling.
SCHWARTZE.
Nothing, my child. Don't ask about it.
MAGDA.
H'm--and you've grown handsomer with the years. I can't look at you enough. I shall be very proud with such a handsome papa. But she must get better [indicating Marie]. She's as white as milk. Do you take iron? Eh? You must take iron? [tenderly]. Just to think that I am at home! It seems like a fairy tale. It was a capital idea of yours to call me back without any explanations--senza complimenti--for we've outgrown those silly misunderstandings long ago.
SCHWARTZE.
Misunderstandings!