t sort of people? Can you tell me that?

FRIDA.
[A little nervously.] No, I really don't know. Yes, by-the-bye,
I know that young Mr. Borkman is to be there this evening.

BORKMAN.
[Taken aback.] Erhart? My son?

FRIDA.
Yes, he is going there.

BORKMAN.
How do you know that?

FRIDA.
He said so himself--an hour ago.

BORKMAN.
Is he out here to-day?

FRIDA.
Yes, he has been at Mrs. Wilton's all the afternoon.

BORKMAN.
[Inquiringly.] Do you know if he called here too? I mean, did
he see any one downstairs?

FRIDA.
Yes, he looked in to see Mrs. Borkman.

BORKMAN.
[Bitterly.] Aha--I might have known it.

FRIDA.
There was a strange lady calling upon her, I think.

BORKMAN.
Indeed? Was there? Oh yes, I suppose people do come now and
then to see Mrs. Borkman.

FRIDA.
If I meet young Mr. Borkman this evening, shall I ask him to
come up and see you too?

BORKMAN.
[Harshly.] You shall do nothing of the sort! I won't have it
on any account. The people who want to see me can come of their
own accord.

FRIDA.
Oh, very well; I shan't say anything then. Good-night, Mr.
Borkman.

BORKMAN.
[Pacing up and down and growling.] Good-night.

FRIDA.
Do you mind if I run down by the winding stair? It's the
shortest way.

BORKMAN.
Oh, by all means; take whatever stair you please, so far as I
am concerned. Good-night to you!

FRIDA.
Good-night, Mr. Borkman.

[She goes out by the little tapestry door in the back on
the left.

[BORKMAN, lost in thought, goes up to the piano, and is about
to close it, but changes his mind. Looks round the great
empty room, and sets to pacing up and down it from the
corner at the back on the right--pacing backward and
forward uneasily and incessantly. At last he goes up
to the writing-table, listens in the direction of the
folding door, hastily snatches up a hand-glass, looks
at himself in it, and straightens his necktie.

[A knock at the folding door. BORKMAN hears it, looks rapidly
towards the door, but says nothing.

[In a little there comes another knock, this time louder.

BORKMAN.
[Standing beside the writing-table with his left hand resting
upon it, and his right thrust in the breast of his coat.] Come
in!

[VILHELM FOLDAL comes softly into the room. He is a bent
and worn man with mild blue eyes a