Rosmer (looking up at her). Calm and happy innocence.
Rebecca (taking a step backwards). Of course. Innocence. (A short silence.)
Rosmer (resting his head on his hands with his elbows on the table, and looking straight in front of him). How ingeniously—how systematically—she must have put one thing together with another! First of all she begins to have a suspicion as to my orthodoxy. How on earth did she get that idea in her mind? Any way, she did; and the idea grew into a certainty. And then—then, of course, it was easy for her to think everything else possible. (Sits up in his chair and, runs his hands through his hair.) The wild fancies I am haunted with! I shall never get quit of them. I am certain of that—certain. They will always be starting up before me to remind me of the dead.
Rebecca. Like the White Horse of Rosmersholm.
Rosmer. Yes, like that. Rushing at me out of the dark—out of the silence.
Rebecca. And, because of this morbid fancy of yours, you are going to give up the hold you had just gained upon real life?
Rosmer. You are right, it seems hard—hard, Rebecca. But I have no power of choice in the matter. How do you think I could ever get the mastery over it?
Rebecca (standing behind his chair). By making new ties for yourself.
Rosmer (starts, and looks up). New ties?
Rebecca. Yes, new ties with the outside world. Live, work, do something! Do not sit here musing and brooding over insoluble conundrums.