Mrs. Alving. It is nothing more than a foolish jest of Oswald's, you may be sure. Manders. Well, of course, as I said, I am quite inexperienced in such matters; but it certainly seems to me— Mrs. Alving. Out of the house she shall go—and at once. That part of it is as clear as daylight— Manders. Yes, that is quite clear. Mrs. Alving. But where is she to go? We should not be justified in— Manders. Where to? Home to her father, of course. Mrs. Alving. To whom, did you say? Manders. To her—. No, of course Engstrand isn't—. But, great heavens, Mrs. Alving, how is such a thing possible? You surely may have been mistaken, in spite of everything. Mrs. Alving. There was no chance of mistake, more's the pity. Joanna was obliged to confess it to me—and my husband couldn't deny it. So there was nothing else to do but to hush it up. Manders. No, that was the only thing to do. Mrs. Alving. The girl was sent away at once, and was given a tolerably liberal sum to hold her tongue. She looked after the rest herself when she got to town. She renewed an old acquaintance with the carpenter Engstrand; gave him a hint, I suppose, of how much money she had got, and told him some fairy tale about a foreigner who had been here in his yacht in the summer. So she and Engstrand were married in a great hurry. Why, you married them yourself! Manders. I can't understand it—, I remember clearly Engstrand's coming to arrange about the marriage. He was full of contrition, and accused himself bitterly for the light conduct he and his fiancee had been guilty of. Mrs. Alving. Of course he had to take the blame on himself. Manders. But the deceitfulness of it! And with me, too! I positively would not have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall most certainly give him a serious talking to. And the immorality of such a marriage! Simply for the sake of the money—! What sum was it that the girl had? Mrs. Alving. It was seventy pounds. Manders. Just think of it—for a paltry seventy pounds to let yourself be bound in marriage to a
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