MOTHER. I've felt a call to be a tool in the hands of Providence.
OLD MAN. Don't confuse it with your wish for vengeance.
MOTHER. I'll try not to, if I can.
OLD MAN. Well, good-night.
MOTHER. Do you think Ingeborg has read his last book?
OLD MAN. It's unlikely. If she had she'd never have married a man who held such views.
MOTHER. No, she's not read it. But now she must.
[A simple, pleasantly furnished room in the forester's house. The walls are colour-washed in red; the curtains are of thin rose-coloured muslin. In the small latticed windows there are flowers. On right, a writing-table and bookshelf. Left, a sofa with rose-coloured curtains above in the form of a baldachino. Tables and chairs in Old German style. At the back, a door. Outside the country can be seen and the poorhouse, a dark, unpleasant building with black, uncurtained windows. Strong sunlight. The LADY is sitting on the sofa working.]
MOTHER (standing with a book bound in rose-coloured cloth in her hand.) You won't read your husband's book?
LADY. Not that one. I promised not to.