STUDENT. Well, if that's so—I don't want to miss——
[He goes out.
STRANGER. Can that be my son? Well, if it comes to the worst—I was a child myself once, and it was neither remarkable nor pleasant—And I am his—what of it? And for that matter—who knows?—Now I'll have a look at Mrs. Westerlund. She used to work for my parents—was faithful and good-tempered; and when she had been pilfering for ten years she was raised to the rank of a "trusted" servant. [He seats himself at the table in front of the inn] There are Gustafson's wreaths—just as carelessly made as they were forty years ago. He was always careless and stupid in all he did, and so he never succeeded with anything. But much might be pardoned him on account of his self-knowledge. "Poor fool that I am," he used to say, and then he would pull off his cap and scratch his head.—Why, there's a myrtle plant! [He knocks at the pot] Not watered, of course! He always forgot to water his plants, the damned fool—and yet he expected them to grow.
SJÖBLOM, the painter, appears.
STRANGER. I wonder who that painter can be. Probably he belongs also to the Bog, and perhaps he is one of the threads in my own web.
SJÖBLOM is staring at the STRANGER all this time.
STRANGER. [Returning the stare] Well, do you recognise me?
SJÖBLOM. Are you—Mr. Arvid?
STRANGER. Have been and am—if perception argues being.
[Pause.