OSWALD. If it were only the illness, I should stay with you, mother, you may be sure; for you are the best friend I have in the world.
MRS. ALVING. Yes, indeed I am, Oswald; am I not?
OSWALD. [Wanders restlessly about.] But it's all the torment, the gnawing remorse—and then, the great, killing dread. Oh—that awful dread!
MRS. ALVING. [Walking after him.] Dread? What dread? What do you mean?
OSWALD. Oh, you mustn't ask me any more. I don't know. I can't describe it.
MRS. ALVING. [Goes over to the right and pulls the bell.]
OSWALD. What is it you want?
MRS. ALVING. I want my boy to be happy—that is what I want. He sha'n't go on brooding over things. [To REGINA, who appears at the door:] More champagne—a large bottle. [REGINA goes.]
OSWALD. Mother!
MRS. ALVING. Do you think we don't know how to live here at home?