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Solness. With what then? Out with it!
Hilda. I wonder whether you were not sent into the world with a sickly conscience.
Solness. A sickly conscience? What devilry is that?
Hilda. I mean that your conscience is feeble—too delicately built, as it were—hasn't strength to take a grip of things—to lift and bear what is heavy.
Solness. [Growls.] H'm! May I ask, then, what sort of a conscience one ought to have?
Hilda. I should like your conscience to be—to be thoroughly robust.
Solness. Indeed? Robust, eh? Is your own conscience robust, may I ask?
Hilda. Yes, I think it is. I have never noticed that it wasn't.
Solness. It has not been put very severely to the test, I should think
