_Does_ it make me happy! OSWALD. [_Crumpling up a newspaper._] I should have thought it must be pretty much the same to you whether I was in existence or not. MRS. ALVING. Have you the heart to say that to your mother, Oswald? OSWALD. But you’ve got on very well without me all this time. MRS. ALVING. Yes; I have got on without you. That is true. [_A silence. Twilight slowly begins to fall. OSWALD paces to and fro across the room. He has laid his cigar down._ OSWALD. [_Stops beside Mrs. Alving._] Mother, may I sit on the sofa beside you? MRS. ALVING. [_Makes room for him._] Yes, do, my dear boy. OSWALD. [_Sits down._] There is something I must tell you, mother. MRS. ALVING. [_Anxiously._] Well? OSWALD. [_Looks fixedly before him._] For I can’t go on hiding it any longer. MRS. ALVING. Hiding what? What is it? OSWALD. [_As before._] I could never bring myself to write to you about it; and since I’ve come home—— MRS. ALVING. [_Seizes him by the arm._] Oswald, what is the matter? OSWALD. Both yesterday and to-day I have tried to put the thoughts away from me—to cast them off; but it’s no use. MRS. ALVING. [_Rising._] Now you must tell me everything, Oswald! OSWALD. [_Draws her down to the sofa again._] Sit still; and then I will try to tell you.—I complained of fatigue after my journey—— MRS. ALVING. Well? What then? OSWALD. But it isn’t that that is the matter with me; not any ordinary fatigue—— MRS. ALVING. [_Tries to jump up._] You are not ill, Oswald? OSWALD. [_Draws her down again._] Sit still, mother. Do take it quietly. I’m not downright ill, either; not what is commonly called “ill.” [_Clasps his hands above his head._] Mother, my mind is broken down—ruined—I shall never be able to work again! [_With his hands before his face, he buries his head in her lap, and breaks into bitter sobbing._ MRS. ALVING. [_White and trembling._] Oswald! Look at me! No, no; it’s not true. OSWALD. [_Looks up with despair in his eyes._] Never to be able to work again! Never!—never! A living death! Mother, can you imagine anything so horrible? MRS. ALVING. My poor boy! How has this horrible thing come upon you? OSWALD.