Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 8).djvu/279

 Hialmar.

[By the stove, stops her, looks at her, puts his arm round her neck and presses her to him.] Hedvig, Hedvig!

Hedvig.

[With tears of joy.] My dear, kind father!

Hialmar.

No, don't call me that. Here have I been feasting at the rich man's table,—battening at the groaning board! And I couldn't even!

Gina.

[Sitting at the table.] Oh nonsense, nonsense, Ekdal.

Hialmar.

It's not nonsense! And yet you mustn't be too hard upon me. You know that I love you for all that.

Hedvig.

[Throwing her arms round him.] And we love you, oh so dearly, father!

Hialmar.

And if I am unreasonable once in a while,—why then—you must remember that I am a man beset by a host of cares. There, there! [Dries his eyes.] No beer at such a moment as this. Give me the flute.

[Hedvig runs to the bookcase and fetches it.

Hialmar.

Thanks! That's right. With my flute in my hand and you two at my side—ah!

[Hedvig seats herself at the table near Gina: