BORKMAN. Oh, come--you have plenty left. FOLDAL. Yes, God knows I have--five of them. But Frida was the only one who at all understood me. [Shaking his head sadly.] The others don't understand me a bit. BORKMAN. [Gloomily, gazing straight before him, and drumming on the table with his fingers.] No, that's just it. That is the curse we exceptional, chosen people have to bear. The common herd-- the average man and woman--they do not understand us, Vilhelm. FOLDAL. [With resignation.] If it were only the lack of understanding-- with a little patience, one could manage to wait for that awhile yet. [His voice choked with tears.] But there is something still bitterer. BORKMAN. [Vehemently.] There is nothing bitterer than that. FOLDAL. Yes, there is, John Gabriel. I have gone through a domestic scene to-night--just before I started. BORKMAN. Indeed? What about? FOLDAL. [With an outburst.] My people at home--they despise me. BORKMAN. [Indignantly.] Despise----? FOLDAL. [Wiping his eyes.] I have long known it; but to-day it came out unmistakably. BORKMAN. [After a short silence.] You made an unwise choice, I fear, when you married. FOLDAL. I had practically no choice in the matter. And, you see, one feels a need for companionship as one begins to get on in years. And so crushed as I then was--so utterly broken down---- BORKMAN. [Jumping up in anger.] Is this meant for me? A reproach----!