ALLMERS. [Shrugging his shoulders.] The book? Oh, the book-- 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, some one 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?