Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 9).djvu/113

 Mortensgård. [With a sly smile.] That's a large word, Mr. Rosmer.

Rosmer. Perhaps; but I have a right to use it.

Mortensgård. Even if you were to scrutinise your conduct as closely as you once scrutinised mine?

Rosmer. Your tone is very curious. What are you hinting at? Anything definite?

Mortensgård. Yes, something definite. Only one thing. But that might be bad enough, if malicious opponents got wind of it.

Rosmer. Will you have the kindness to let me hear what it is?

Mortensgård. Cannot you guess for yourself, Pastor?

Rosmer. No, certainly not. I have not the slightest idea.

Mortensgård. Well well, I suppose I must come out with it then.—I have in my possession a strange letter, dated from Rosmersholm.

Rosmer. Miss West's letter, do you mean? Is it so strange?