life meant--only loungers and boon-companions--

OSWALD. Mother--!

MRS. ALVING. So the inevitable happened.

OSWALD. The inevitable?

MRS. ALVING. You told me yourself, this evening, what would become of you if you stayed at home.

OSWALD. Do you mean to say that father--?

MRS. ALVING. Your poor father found no outlet for the overpowering joy of life that was in him. And I brought no brightness into his home.

OSWALD. Not even you?

MRS. ALVING. They had taught me a great deal about duties and so forth, which I went on obstinately believing in. Everything was marked out into duties--into my duties, and his duties, and--I am afraid I made his home intolerable for your poor father, Oswald.

OSWALD. Why have you never spoken of this in writing to me?

MRS. ALVING. I have never before seen it in such a light that I could speak of it to you, his son.

OSWALD. In what light did you see it, then?

MRS. ALVING. [Slowly.] I saw only this one thing: that your father was a broken-down man before you were born.

OSWALD. [Softly.] Ah--! [He rises and walks away to the window.]

MRS. ALVING. And then; day after day, I dwelt on the one thought that by rights Regina should be at home in this house--just like my own boy.

OSWALD. [Turning round quickly.] Regina--!

REGINA. [Springs up and asks, with bated breath.] I--?

MRS. ALVING. Yes, now you know it, both of you.

OSWALD. Regina!

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