Oswald.
If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world.
Mrs. Alving.
Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not?
Oswald.
[Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the gnawing remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that awful dread!
Mrs. Alving.
[Walking after him.] Dread? What dread? What do you mean?
Oswald.
Oh, you mustn't ask me any more. I don't know. I can't describe it.
Mrs. Alving.
[Goes over to the right and pulls the bell.]
Oswald.
What is it you want?
Mrs. Alving.
I want my boy to be happy—that is what I want. He sha'n't go on brooding over things. [To Regina, who appears at the door:] More champagne—a large bottle. [Regina goes.
Oswald.
Mother!
