CLEM. That's just it. That's what makes me ask: How can a lady indulge in visions of that character? [_Reads._] "Abandoned on thy breast and suckled by thy lips" [_shaking his head_]. How can a lady write such stuff--how can a lady have such stuff printed? That's what I simply cannot make out. Everybody who reads will inevitably conjure up the person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned, and the particular abandonment hinted at. MARG. But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed. CLEM. I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That's lucky for both of us, Margaret. But where did these visions originate? These glowing passion-poems could not have been inspired by your first husband. Besides, he could never appreciate you, as you yourself always say. MARG. Certainly not. That's why I brought suit for divorce. You know the story. I just couldn't bear living with a man who had no other interest in life than eating and drinking and cotton. CLEM. I dare say. But that was three years ago. These poems were written later. MARG. Quite so. But consider the position in which I found myself-- CLEM. What do you mean? You didn't have to endure any privation? In this respect you must admit your husband acted very decently toward you. You were not under the necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the publishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem--surely they don't pay more than that--still, you were not bound to write a book of this sort. MARG. I did not refer to position in a material sense. It was the state of my soul. Have you a notion how--when you came to know me--things were considerably improved. I had in many ways found myself again. But in the beginning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at everything; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where I lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody-- CLEM. Why didn't you stay in Vienna? MARG. Because I couldn't get along with my family. No one appreciated me. Oh, what people! Did any one of them realize that a woman of my type asks more of life than a husband, pretty dresses and social position? My God! If I had had a child, probably everything would have ended differently--and maybe not. I'm not quite lacking in accomplishments, you know. Are you still prepared to complain? Was it not for the best that I went to Munich? Would I have made your acquaintance else? CLEM. You didn't go there with that object in view. MARG. I wanted to be free spiritually, I mean. I wanted to prove to myself whether I could succeed through my own efforts. And, admit, didn't it look as if I was jolly well going to? I had made some headway on the road to fame. CLEM. H'm! MARG. But you were dearer to me than fame. CLEM [_good-naturedly_]. And surer.