[Wringing her hands.] Oh, this killing doubt! [Looks darkly at him.] Is there anything I can do to convince you?
Rosmer.
[As if impelled to speak against his will.] Yes, one thing—only I'm afraid you wouldn't see it in the same light. And yet I must mention it. It is like this. I want to recover faith in my mission, in my power to ennoble human souls. And, as a logical thinker, this I cannot do now, unless—well, unless you jump into the mill-race, too, like Beata!
Rebecca.
[Takes up her antimacassar, with composure, and puts it on her head.] Anything to oblige you.
Rosmer.
[Springs up.] What? You really will! You are sure you don't mind? Then, Rebecca, I will go further. I will even go—yes—as far as you go yourself!
Rebecca.
[Bows her head towards his breast.] You will see me off? Thanks. Now you are indeed an Ibsenite.
[Smiles almost imperceptibly.