dark silk, which has originally been handsome, but is now somewhat worn and shabby. A woollen shawl over her shoulders.
She sits for a time erect and immovable at her crochet. Then the bells of a passing sledge are heard.
Mrs. Borkman.
[Listens; her eyes sparkle with gladness and she involuntarily whispers.] Erhart! At last! [She rises and draws the curtain a little aside to look out. Appears disappointed, and sits down to her work again, on the sofa. Presently The Maid enters from the hall with a visiting card on a small tray.
Mrs. Borkman.
[Quickly.] Has Mr. Erhart come after all?
The Maid.
No, ma'am. But there's a lady
Mrs. Borkman.
[Laying aside her crochet.] Oh, Mrs. Wilton, I suppose
The Maid.
[Approaching.] No, it's a strange lady
