OSWALD. [Shakes his head.] I don't understand you.

MRS. ALVING. You ought to have known your father when he was a
young lieutenant. He was brimming over with the joy of life!

OSWALD. Yes, I know he was.

MRS. ALVING. It was like a breezy day only to look at him. And what
exuberant strength and vitality there was in him!

OSWALD. Well--?

MRS. ALVING. Well then, child of joy as he was--for he was like a
child in those days--he had to live at home here in a half-grown
town, which had no joys to offer him--only dissipations. He had no
object in life--only an official position. He had no work into
which he could throw himself heart and soul; he had only business.
He had not a single comrade that could realise what the joy of life
meant--only loungers and boon-companions--

OSWALD. Mother--!

MRS. ALVING. So the inevitable happened.

OSWALD. The inevitable?

MRS. ALVING. You told me yourself, this evening, what would become
of you if you stayed at home.

OSWALD. Do you mean to say that father--?