Mrs. Alving. Because I would ten times rather give up the happiness of having you with me, sooner than that you should— 

 Oswald (standing still by the table). Tell me, mother—is it really such a great happiness for you to have me at home? 

 Mrs. Alving. Can you ask? 

 Oswald (crumpling up a newspaper). I should have thought it would have been pretty much the same to you whether I were here or away. 

 Mrs. Alving. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald? 

 Oswald. But you have been quite happy living without me so far. 

 Mrs. Alving. Yes, I have lived without you—that is true. 

 (A silence. The dusk falls by degrees. OSWALD walks restlessly up and down. He has laid aside his cigar.) Oswald (stopping beside MRS. ALVING). Mother, may I sit on the couch beside you? 

 Mrs. Alving. Of course, my dear boy. 

 Oswald (sitting down). Now I must tell you something mother. 

 Mrs. Alving (anxiously). What? 

 Oswald (staring in front of him). I can't bear it any longer. 

 Mrs. Alving. Bear what? What do you mean? 

 Oswald (as before). I couldn't bring myself to write to you about it; and since I have been at home— 

 Mrs. Alving (catching him by the arm). Oswald, what is it? 

 Oswald. Both yesterday and today I have tried to push my thoughts away from me—to free myself from them. But I can't. 

 Mrs. Alving (getting up). You must speak plainly, Oswald! 

 Oswald (drawing her down to her seat again). Sit still, and I will try and tell you. I have made a great deal of the fatigue I felt after my journey— 

 Mrs. Alving. Well, what of that? 

 Oswald. But that isn't what is the matter. It is no ordinary fatigue— 

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