are so many things she doesn't see—or perhaps will not see—or trouble herself about. I don't know which way to put it.
Arnholm. H'm,—I think I understand what you mean?
Boletta.
Poor father,—he is weak in certain ways. I daresay you have noticed that yourself. You see he hasn't enough work to fill up his whole time; and then she is quite incapable of being any support to him.—That is partly his own fault, however.
Arnholm. How so?
Boletta.
Oh, father always likes to see cheerful faces around him; there must be sunshine and contentment in the house, he says. So I am afraid he often lets her have medicine that does her no good in the long run.
Arnholm.
Do you really think so?
Boletta.
Yes, I can't get rid of the idea. She is so strange at times. [Vehemently.] But it does seem hard, does it not, that I should have to stay on at home here? It does not in reality help father at all; and I can't but feel that I have duties towards myself too.
Arnholm.
I'll tell you what, my dear Boletta,—we must talk all this over more thoroughly.
