William.
You see—there again! I am a coward. I’ve never yet dared to tell you what my life has been. In any case it’s a risk—it’s a risk—even to one’s self. Ah! well, if I can’t even bring myself to that point, how shall I ever manage to go up to father?
Ida.
Ah, don’t—don’t torture yourself so! just now, when you have so much to bear!
William.
Ah! you are afraid? You’re afraid of what you may hear?
Ida.
Sh! you must not speak like that.
William.
Well then, just picture it. Father spent his life up there. He had always lived alone till he met mother, and he soon fell back into the old lonely, fantastic way of life. All of a sudden he descended on us—Robert and me,—he never troubled his head about Augusta.... Ten solid hours a day we pored over books; when I look at our prison—even to-day—it was next his study—you must have seen it?