(Wittich enters. He is a large, burly man of about forty, whose whole appearance betrays neglect; his sandy-coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead in damp strands; his beard is straggling and unkempt; his face is haggard and perspiring, his eyes lustreless. He staggers heavily in walking. He speaks in a stammering, hesitating voice; he gives the impression, in sum, of a man who is deathly ill, but is making an intense effort to hold himself together.)
Wittich.
I beg your pardon if I am disturbing you. (Both stare at him without venturing to move.)
Pierre (taking heart).
Oh--p-p-please----
Wittich.
I see you were about to make coffee. Really--I don't want to----
Pierre (stammering).
P-p-please--th-there's no--hurry----
Wittich.