Oswald (from within the room). In weather like this? (A glass is heard clinking. MRS. ALVING leaves the door open and sits down with her knitting on the couch by the window.) Wasn't that Mr. Manders that went out just now? 

 Mrs. Alving. Yes, he has gone over to the Orphanage. 

 Oswald. Oh. (The clink of a bottle on a glass is heard again.) 

 Mrs. Alving (with an uneasy expression.) Oswald, dear, you should be careful with that liqueur. It is strong. 

 Oswald. It's a good protective against the damp. 

 Mrs. Alving. Wouldn't you rather come in here? 

 Oswald. You know you don't like smoking in there. 

 Mrs. Alving. You may smoke a cigar in here, certainly. 

 Oswald. All right; I will come in, then. Just one drop more. There! (Comes in, smoking a cigar, and shuts the door after him. A short silence.) Where has the parson gone? 

 Mrs. Alving. I told you he had gone over to the Orphanage. 

 Oswald. Oh, so you did. 

 Mrs. Alving. You shouldn't sit so long at table, Oswald, 

 Oswald (holding his cigar behind his back). But it's so nice and cosy, mother dear. (Caresses her with one hand.) Think what it means to me—to have come home; to sit at my mother's own table, in my mother's own room, and to enjoy the charming meals she gives me. 

 Mrs. Alving. My dear, dear boy! 

 Oswald (a little impatiently, as he walks tip and down smoking.) And what else is there for me to do here? I have no occupation— 

 Mrs. Alving. No occupation? 

 Oswald. Not in this ghastly weather, when there isn't a blink of sunshine all day long. (Walks up and down the floor.) Not to be able to work, it's—! 

 Mrs. Alving. I don't believe you were wise to come home. 

 Oswald. Yes, mother; I had to. 

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