g up). What do you mean?

Oswald. I can't go on bearing all this agony of mind alone.

Mrs. Alving, Haven't you your mother to help you to bear it?

Oswald. Yes, I thought so; that was why I came home to you. But it is
no use; I see that it isn't. I cannot spend my life here.

Mrs. Alving. Oswald!

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?

Oswald. I naturally had forgotten all about it; but the day before
yesterday I happened to ask her if she was glad I was to be so long at
home--

Mrs. Alving. Well?

Oswald. --and she looked so queerly at me, and asked: "But what is to
become of my trip to Paris?"

Mrs. Alving. Her trip!

Oswald. And then I got i