THE CHAMBERLAIN. Ah, Stensgård now! What do you make of Stensgård? FIELDBO. A patchwork. I have known him from childhood. His father was a mere rag of a man, a withered weed, a nobody. He kept a little huckster’s shop, and eked things out with pawn-broking; or rather his wife did for him. She was a coarse-grained woman, the most unwomanly I ever knew. She had her husband declared incapable;[21] she had not an ounce of heart in her. And in that home Stensgård passed his childhood. Then he went to the grammar-school. “He shall go to college,” said his mother; “I’ll make a smart solicitor of him.” Squalor at home, high-pressure at school; soul, temperament, will, talents, all pulling in different ways—what could it lead to but disintegration of character? THE CHAMBERLAIN. What could it lead to, eh? I should like to know what is good enough for you. We are to expect nothing of Stensgård; nothing of my son; but we may look to you, I suppose—to you——? FIELDBO. Yes, to me—precisely. Oh, you needn’t laugh; I take no credit to myself; but my lot has been one that begets equilibrium and firmness of character. I was brought up amid the peace and harmony of a modest middle-class home. My mother is a woman of the finest type; in our home we had no desires that outstripped our opportunities, no cravings that were wrecked on the rocks of circumstance; and death did not break in upon our circle, leaving emptiness and longing behind it. We were brought up in the love of beauty, but it informed our whole view of life, instead of being a side-interest, a thing apart. We were taught to shun excesses, whether of the intellect or of the feelings—— THE CHAMBERLAIN. Bless me! So that accounts for your being the pink of perfection? FIELDBO. I am far from thinking so. I only say that fate had been infinitely kind to me, and that I regard its favours in the light of obligations. THE CHAMBERLAIN. Very well; but if Stensgård is under no such obligations, it is all the more to his credit that he—— FIELDBO. What? What is to his credit? THE CHAMBERLAIN. You have misjudged him, my good Doctor. Look here. What do you say to this? FIELDBO. Your son’s bill! THE CHAMBERLAIN. Yes; he has sent it to me. FIELDBO. Of his own accord? THE CHAMBERLAIN. Of his own accord, and unconditionally. It is fine; it is noble. From this day forth, my house is open to him. FIELDBO. Think again! For your own sake, for your daughter’s—— THE CHAMBERLAIN.