TEKLA. No!—Since the child died we have broken off our correspondence.
ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all?
TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now?
ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was alone, I kept thinking of him—how he might have felt when he was left alone that time.
TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience?
ADOLPH. I am.
TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you?
ADOLPH. Almost!
TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal property. I am very much obliged to you!
ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more than property—for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish notions would leave you.—Have you not taken his place with me?