ASTA. Yes, I was sure you would find it go so easily when once you got
away.
ALLMERS. So I thought too. But, do you know, I didn't find it so at all.
The truth is, I have not written a line of the book.
ASTA. Not a line?
RITA. Oho! I wondered when I found all the paper lying untouched in your
bag.
ASTA. But, my dear Alfred, what have you been doing all this time?
ALLMERS. [Smiling.] Only thinking and thinking and thinking.
RITA. [Putting her arm round his neck.] And thinking a little, too, of
those you had left at home?
ALLMERS. Yes, you may be sure of that. I have thought a great deal of
you--every single day.
RITA. [Taking her arm away.] Ah, that is all I care about.
ASTA. But you haven't even touched the book! And yet you can look so
happy and contented! That is not what you generally do--I mean when your
work is going badly.
ALLMERS. You are right there. You see, I have been such a fool hitherto.
All the best that is in you goes into thinking. What you put on paper is
worth very little.
ASTA. [Exclaiming.] Worth very little!
RITA. [Laughing.] What an absurd thing to say, Alfred.
EYOLF. [Looks confidingly up at him.] Oh yes, Papa, what you write is
worth a great deal!
ALLMERS. [Smiling and stroking his hair.] Well, well, since you say
so.--But I can tell you, someone is coming after me who will do it
better.
EYOLF. Who can that be? Oh, tell me!
ALLMERS. Only wait--you may be sure he will come, and let us hear of
him.
EYOLF. And what will you do then?