CLEM. Comical--is no word for it! If some one had prophesied to me that I was going to marry a regular frequenter of the Café Maxmillian--I fancied the two young painters most. They'd have made an incomparable vaudeville team. Do you know, they resembled each other so much and owned everything they possessed in common--and, if I'm not mistaken, the Russian on the ladder along with the rest. MARG. I didn't bother myself with such things. CLEM. And, then, both must have been Jews? MARG. Why so? CLEM. Oh, simply because they always jested in such a way. And their enunciation. MARG. You may spare your anti-Semitic remarks. CLEM. Now, sweetheart, don't be touchy. I know that your blood is not untainted, and I have nothing whatever against the Jews. I once had a tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word! He was a capital fellow. One meets all sorts and conditions of people. I don't in the least regret having made the acquaintance of your associates in Munich. It's all the weave of our life experience. But I can't help thinking that I must have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue you in the nick of time. MARG. Yes, so you did. My Clem! Clem! [_Embraces him._] CLEM. What are you laughing at? MARG. Something's just occurred to me. CLEM. What? MARG. "Abandoned on thy breast and--" CLEM. [_vexed_]. Please! Must you always shatter my illusions? MARG. Tell me truly, Clem, wouldn't you be proud if your fiancée, your wife, were to become a great, a famous writer? CLEM. I have already told you. I am rooted in my decision. And I promise you that if you begin scribbling or publishing poems in which you paint your passion for me, and sing to the world the progress of our love--it's all up with our wedding, and off I go. MARG. You threaten--you, who have had a dozen well-known affairs. CLEM. My dear, well-known or not, I didn't tell anybody. I didn't bring out a book whenever a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that any Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden and a half. There's the rub. I know there are people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it extremely coarse. It's more degrading to me than if you were to pose as a Greek goddess in flesh-colored tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue like that doesn't say "Mew." But a writer who makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely humorous. MARG. [_nervously_]. Dearest, you forget that the poet does not always tell the truth. CLEM. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any better? MARG. It isn't called vaporizing; it's "_distillation_." CLEM. What sort of an expression is that? MARG. We disclose things we never experience, things we dreamed--plainly invented. CLEM. Don't say "we" any more, Margaret. Thank goodness, that is past. MARG. Who knows? CLEM. What? MARG. [_tenderly_]. Clement, I must tell you all. CLEM. What is it? MARG. It is not past; I haven't given up my writing. CLEM. Why?