Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 7).djvu/274

 pleasant, mother. [Strokes and caresses her.] Just think what it is for me to come home and sit at mother's own table, in mother's room, and eat mother's delicious dishes.

Mrs. Alving.

My dear, dear boy!

Oswald.

[Somewhat impatiently, walks about and smokes.] And what else can I do with myself here? I can't set to work at anything.

Mrs. Alving.

Why can't you?

Oswald.

In such weather as this? Without a single ray of sunshine the whole day? [Walks up the room.] Oh, not to be able to work!

Mrs. Alving.

Perhaps it was not quite wise of you to come home?

Oswald.

Oh, yes, mother; I had to.

Mrs. Alving.

You know I would ten times rather forgo the joy of having you here, than let you

Oswald.

[Stops beside the table.] Now just tell me, mother: does it really make you so very happy to have me home again?