Robert. Straw wouldn't be the worst. Mother--I shall die on the grave's edge, or in the gutter like a street cur! Only do give the money back--(_Desperately_) See, I am talking perfectly calmly, perfectly sensibly, I'll show you as plain as day what you must do. That fellow has brought us into disgrace--But we are innocent--We needn't be ashamed before anyone. A man can steal honor just the same as he can steal a purse. No one can prevent that!--But if we let someone buy our honor with cold money, then we have no honor at all--and it serves us right--(Heinecke _turns to_ Michalski, _touching his forehead_) Heaven knows I understand it all! I'm not critcizing--Really I'm not.--You are poor and you've always been poor. Such a miserable existence! Nothing but worry for daily bread destroys all judgment and all dignity. And now you let yourselves be blinded by a little money!--but believe me, it will never give you pleasure. Nothing will be left but disgust! (_Choking_) Ah, the disgust! It chokes---- Frau Heinecke. That kind of talk is enough to turn you cold---- Heinecke. So _that_ is my son! Robert. And don't imagine that you will lose by taking my advice. Look at me! I have learned a few things, haven't I? I'm healthy, I can be trusted, can't I--The few remaining years you can trust to me, can't you?--Can't you see. I want nothing better than to work for you--I'll make you rich! Rich! you can do what you like with me! I'll be your slave! Your pack-horse--Only give back that money! Heinecke. That's all very well! But a bird in the hand--Let me tell you! Michalski. You're right there, Father! Heinecke. I certainly am right!--You run along and chase your sparrows, my boy. I'll keep the bird I've got. Michalski. Bravo! Robert. And you, Mother?--(_She turns away_) You too?--God, what have I left?--Alma, what about you? I offer you everything. Only help me! (_He takes her hand. She struggles a little. He draws her toward the center_) You've given yourself away. Well, perhaps that's your right. But you won't _sell_ yourself--you can't sell your love in the public market. Alma, tell them that! Alma. (_Angrily_) Let me go! Auguste. He's breaking the kid's arm. Alma. You've got nothing to say to me any more. (_She breaks away_) Robert. Little sister! Alma. And I'm going to the masked ball, too! Ask mother if I ain't. Robert. Mother! Frau Heinecke. Why shouldn't the poor child have a little fun once in a while? Robert. (_Overcome_) So we've gone that far? Michalski. (_Sitting in chair, mockingly_) Yes, we've gone that far! Robert. You--_Procuror_! Get out of that chair! (Michalski _remains seated_, Robert _takes hold of the back of the chair_) Get up, I say, and get out of here, both of you! Michalski. (_Threateningly_) Now that's a little too fresh! Robert. (_Who has seized the chair_) Dare to lay a hand on me! Frau Heinecke. (_Throwing herself between them_) You'll break my arm-chair.