Rebecca (glancing at her unobserved). Indeed?
Mrs. Helseth (standing at the sofa, dusting vigorously). People you would least expect, sometimes, miss.
Rebecca (arranging the flowers). Yes, but that is only an idea of yours, Mrs. Helseth. You cannot know that for certain.
Mrs. Helseth. You think I don't know anything about that for certain, do you, miss? Indeed I do. Because—if I must let out the secret at last—I carried a letter to Mortensgaard myself once.
Rebecca (turns round). No—did you!
Mrs. Helseth. Yes, that I did. And that letter, let me tell you, was written here—at Rosmersholm.
Rebecca. Really, Mrs. Helseth?
Mrs. Helseth. I give you my word it was, miss. And it was written on good note-paper—and sealed with beautiful red sealing-wax.
Rebecca. And you were entrusted with the delivery of it? Dear Mrs. Helseth, it is not very difficult to guess whom it was from.
Mrs. Helseth. Who, then?