CAPTAIN. No, but just enough. But, you see, Doctor, that woman was
so unconsciously dishonest that she talked to her husband about the
fancy she had taken to me. That's what makes it dangerous, this
very unconsciousness of their instinctive dishonesty. That is a
mitigating circumstance, I admit, but it cannot nullify judgment,
only soften it.

DOCTOR. Captain, your thoughts are taking a morbid turn, and you
ought to control them.

CAPTAIN. You must not use the word morbid. Steam boilers, as you
know, explode at it certain pressure, but the same pressure is not
needed for all boiler explosions. You understand? However, you are
here to watch me. If I were not a man I should have the right to
make accusations or complaints, as they are so cleverly called, and
perhaps I should be able to give you the whole diagnosis, and, what
is more, the history of my disease. But unfortunately, I am a man,
and there is nothing for me to do but, like a Roman, fold my arms
across my breast and hold my breath till I die.

DOCTOR. Captain, if you are ill, it will not reflect upon your
honor as a man to tell me all. In fact, I ought to hear the other
side.

CAPTAIN. You have had enough in hearing the one, I imagine. Do you
know when I heard Mrs. Alving eulogizing her dead husband, I
thought to myself what a damned pity it was the fellow was dead. Do
you suppose that he would have spoken if he had been alive? And do
you suppose that if any of the dead husbands came back they would