MRS. ALVING. Yes; and in my husband's lifetime you never came to see
us. It was business that forced you to visit me when you undertook
the affairs of the Orphanage.

MANDERS. [Softly and hesitatingly.] Helen--if that is meant as a
reproach, I would beg you to bear in mind--

MRS. ALVING. --the regard you owed to your position, yes; and that I
was a runaway wife. One can never be too cautious with such
unprincipled creatures.

MANDERS. My dear--Mrs. Alving, you know that is an absurd exaggeration--

MRS. ALVING. Well well, suppose it is. My point is that your
judgment as to my married life is founded upon nothing but common
knowledge and report.

MANDERS. I admit that. What then?

MRS. ALVING. Well, then, Pastor Manders--I will tell you the truth.
I have sworn to myself that one day you should know it--you alone!

MANDERS. What is the truth, then?

MRS. ALVING. The truth is that my husband died just as dissolute as
he had lived all his days.

MANDERS. [Feeling after a chair.] What do you say?

MRS. ALVING. After nineteen years of marriage, as dissolute--in his