MRS. ALVING. Ah, but here he has his mother, you see. My own
darling boy--he hasn't forgotten his old mother!

MANDERS. It would be grievous indeed, if absence and absorption in
art and that sort of thing were to blunt his natural feelings.

MRS. ALVING. Yes, you may well say so. But there's nothing of that
sort to fear with him. I'm quite curious to see whether you know
him again. He'll be down presently; he's upstairs just now, resting
a little on the sofa. But do sit down, my dear Pastor.

MANDERS. Thank you. Are you quite at liberty--?

MRS. ALVING. Certainly. [She sits by the table.]

MANDERS. Very well. Then let me show you--[He goes to the chair
where his travelling-bag lies, takes out a packet of papers, sits
down on the opposite side of the table, and tries to find a clear
space for the papers.] Now, to begin with, here is--[Breaking off.]
Tell me, Mrs. Alving, how do these books come to be here?

MRS. ALVING. These books? They are books I am reading.

MANDERS. Do you read this sort of literature?

MRS. ALVING. Certainly I do.

MANDERS. Do you feel better or happier for such reading?

MRS. ALVING. I feel, so to speak, more secure.