Manders. To her--. No, of course Engstrand isn't--. But, great
heavens, Mrs. Alving, how is such a thing possible? You surely
may have been mistaken, in spite of everything.

Mrs. Alving. There was no chance of mistake, more's the pity.
Joanna was obliged to confess it to me--and my husband couldn't
deny it. So there was nothing else to do but to hush it up.

Manders. No, that was the only thing to do.

Mrs. Alving. The girl was sent away at once, and was given a
tolerably liberal sum to hold her tongue. She looked after the
rest herself when she got to town. She renewed an old
acquaintance with the carpenter Engstrand; gave him a hint, I
suppose, of how much money she had got, and told him some fairy
tale about a foreigner who had been here in his yacht in the
summer. So she and Engstrand were married in a great hurry. Why,
you married them yourself!

Manders. I can't understand it--, I remember clearly Engstrand's
coming to arrange about the marriage. He was full of contrition,
and accused himself bitterly for the light conduct he and his
fiancee had been guilty of.

Mrs. Alving. Of course he had to take the blame on himself.

Manders. But the deceitfulness of it! And with me, too! I
positively would not have believed it of Jacob Engstrand. I shall
most certainly give him a serious talking to. And the immorality