Mrs. Alving. Yes, yes,—very well. What I mean is this, that when you condemn my conduct as a wife you have nothing more to go upon than ordinary public opinion.
Manders. I admit it. What then?
Mrs. Alving. Well now, Mr. Manders, now I am going to tell you the truth. I had sworn to myself that you should know it one day—you, and you only!
Manders. And what may the truth be?
Mrs. Alving. The truth is this, that my husband died just as great a profligate as he had been all his life.
Manders (feeling for a chair). What are you saying?
Mrs. Alving. After nineteen years of married life, just as profligate—in his desires at all events—as he was before you married us.
Manders. And can you talk of his youthful indiscretions—his irregularities—his excesses, if you like—as a profligate life!
Mrs. Alving. That was what the doctor who attended him called it.
Manders. I don't understand what you mean.