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him spouting about "the child too early torn from her father's heart;" then you'll see him steep himself in a syrup of sentiment and self-admiration and self-pity. Just you wait!
Gregers.
If you are right and I am wrong, then life is not worth living.
Relling.
Oh, life would be quite tolerable, after all, if only we could be rid of the confounded duns that keep on pestering us, in our poverty, with the claim of the ideal.
Gregers.
[Looking straight before him.] In that case, I am glad that my destiny is what it is.
Relling.
May I inquire,—what is your destiny?
Gregers.
[Going.] To be the thirteenth at table.
Relling.
The devil it is.
THE END.
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