GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband?

ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poor
portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightest
resemblance.

GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides,
he might have changed considerably since it was made. However, I
hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you?

ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage,
and the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happened
right here, in this very house even, and that's why we come here
every summer.

GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And you
wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the
children of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to her
dead husband. It is annoying, of course, and that's why they used
to burn all widows in India, as you know.--But tell me: have you
ever felt jealous of him--of his memory? Would it not sicken you
to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your Tekla,
use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We!

ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that very
thought.

GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There are
discords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. For
this reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. If