MARG. Even if my husband happened to be the owner of a cotton mill, that didn't have to effect my personal outlook on life, did it? I always sought culture in my own way. Now, don't let's talk of that period of my life. It's dead and buried, thank heaven! CLEM. Yes. But there's another period which lies nearer. MARG. I know. But why mention it? CLEM. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in Munich--at least, as far as I am able to judge. MARG. I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those friends in whose company you first made my acquaintance. CLEM. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it's incomprehensible to me how you ever got amongst those people. MARG. You speak of them as if they were a gang of criminals. CLEM. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, some of them looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your refined taste--let alone your purity and the scent you used--could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat at the same table with them? MARG. [_laughing_]. Didn't you do the same? CLEM. Next to them--not with them. And for your sake--merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice, however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaintance. There were some interesting people among them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold myself superior to those who happen to be shabbily dressed. That's nothing against them. But there was something in their conduct, in their manners, which was positively revolting. MARG. It wasn't quite so bad. CLEM. Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some interesting people among them. But that a lady should feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend to understand. MARG. You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense I'm one of them--or was at one time. CLEM. Now, please! For my sake! MARG. They were artists. CLEM. Thank goodness, we've returned to the old theme. MARG. Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose sight of that fact. CLEM. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know what pained me in your writings--things entirely personal. MARG. Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in my situation, would have done worse than write poetry. CLEM. But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry! [_Takes a slender volume from the mantel-shelf._] That's what repels me. I assure you, every time I see this book lying here; every time I think of it, I blush with shame that it was you who wrote it. MARG. That's why you fail to understand-- Now, don't take offense. If you did understand, you'd be quite perfect, and that, obviously, is impossible. Why does it repel you? You know I didn't live through all the experiences I write about. CLEM. I hope not. MARG. The poems are only visions.