MRS BUCHNER (_with feverish eagerness_). William, I take you to-day as I always have, for an honest, honourable man. I assure you that not for one moment have I doubted you—even now—when all at once I’m so afraid and anxious. WILLIAM (_lifts himself up, draws a deep breath as though oppressed_). It’s only what I—I’ve known it all along. MRS BUCHNER. I come to you, William, I speak to you frankly;—it has all come upon me so suddenly. All at once I am so terribly anxious about Ida. WILLIAM. I must confess—only just now— MRS BUCHNER. I know well you love the child. Nobody could love her more truly! I know that with all your strength you will try to make my daughter happy;—it won’t be your _will_ that will fail, but now I have—I have seen and discovered so many things. It’s only now that I really understand much—much of what you told me. I _didn’t_ understand you; I took you for a pessimist—in some things I scarcely took you seriously!—I came here with a firm, happy faith. I’m really ashamed! The confidence I had in myself!—I, to fancy I could influence such natures!—a weak, simple creature like me! But now I’m uneasy about it all—now all at once I feel my heavy responsibility. I am responsible for my child—for my Ida. Every mother is responsible for her child! Only tell me, William, tell me yourself, that it will all come right—Say to me, “we shall be happy,” you and Ida. Convince me that my fear, my dread, is needless—_William_— [_A pause._ WILLIAM. Why did you let it go so far?—I warned you—and warned you. What did I say to you? I said, all of us, every one in this family, are sick, incurables—I most of all. That we all drag with us—“Don’t give your daughter to a maimed creature,” I said to you—Why wouldn’t you believe? MRS BUCHNER. I don’t know. I myself don’t know. WILLIAM. Now you have lulled me to rest, weakened my conscience—and now I have been half mad with happiness—I have tasted—lived through moments! and others besides. The most frightful battle of my life, and _now_ you demand—now one must consider—perhaps, yes, perhaps— MRS BUCHNER. William! I honour you!—I know that you would make any sacrifice. But Ida!—If it should be too late for her—if it were to be her ruin! WILLIAM. Why couldn’t you believe me? You don’t know what that cost me; now I have built it up by painful steps—step by step—so painfully! This place lay far behind me—I was almost saved. Now to pull it all down. Why need you have let it go so far? _Why?_— MRS BUCHNER (_with tears_). I don’t know! I myself don’t know! I brought the child up. She was all in all to me; to work for her happiness has been all I have lived for. Then—_you_ came into our house. I grew fond of you—I thought of your happiness too, I—perhaps I ought not to have done that. I thought perhaps just as much of _your_ happiness—and—who knows?—In the end, most of all—of—_your_ happiness! [_During a minute she and William look startled into each other’s eyes._ WILLIAM.