Oswald. I must live a different sort of life, mother; so I shall have to go away from you, I don't want you watching it. 

 Mrs. Alving. My unhappy boy! But, Oswald, as long as you are ill like this— 

 Oswald. If it was only a matter of feeling ill, I would stay with you, mother. You are the best friend I have in the world. 

 Mrs. Alving. Yes, I am that, Oswald, am I not? 

 Oswald (walking restlessly about). But all this torment—the regret, the remorse—and the deadly fear. Oh—this horrible fear! 

 Mrs. Alving (following him). Fear? Fear of what? What do you mean? 

 Oswald. Oh, don't ask me any more about it. I don't know what it is. I can't put it into words. (MRS. ALVING crosses the room and rings the bell.) What do you want? 

 Mrs. Alving. I want my boy to be happy, that's what I want. He mustn't brood over anything. (To REGINA, who has come to the door.) More champagne—a large bottle. 

 Oswald. Mother! 

 Mrs. Alving. Do you think we country people don't know how to live? 

 Oswald. Isn't she splendid to look at? What a figure! And the picture of health! 

 Mrs. Alving (sitting down at the table). Sit down, Oswald, and let us have a quiet talk. 

 Oswald (sitting down). You don't know, mother, that I owe Regina a little reparation. 

 Mrs. Alving. You! 

 Oswald. Oh, it was only a little thoughtlessness—call it what you like. Something quite innocent, anyway. The last time I was home— 

 Mrs. Alving. Yes? 

 Oswald. —she used often to ask me questions about Paris, and I told her one thing and another about the life there. And I remember saying one day: "Wouldn't you like to go there yourself?" 

 Mrs. Alving. Well? 

 Oswald. I saw her blush, and she said: "Yes, I should like to very much." "All right." I said, "I daresay it might be managed"—or something of that sort. 

 Mrs. Alving. And then? 

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