MARG. It's very good of you. Thanks! GIL. You have a certain proprietorship in that book. So you are living here? MARG. Yes, but-- GIL. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as furnished rooms go, it's passable enough. But these family portraits on the walls would drive me crazy. MARG. My housekeeper's the widow of a general. GIL. Oh, you needn't apologize. MARG. Apologize! Really, the idea never occurred to me. GIL. It's wonderful to hark back to it now. MARG. To what? GIL. Why shouldn't I say it? To the small room in Steinsdorf street, with its balcony abutting over the Isar. Do you remember, Margaret? MARG. Suppose we drop the familiar. GIL. As you please--as you please. [_Pause, then suddenly._] You acted shamefully, Margaret. MARG. What do you mean? GIL. Would you much rather that I beat around the bush? I can find no other word, to my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. Straightforwardness would have done just as nicely. It was quite unnecessary to run away from Munich under cover of a foggy night. MARG. It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. I left in the morning on the eight-thirty train, in open daylight. GIL. At all events, you might have said good-by to me before leaving, eh? [_Sits._] MARG. I expect the Baron back any minute. GIL. What difference does that make? Of course, you didn't tell him that you lay in my arms once and worshiped me. I'm just an old acquaintance from Munich. And there's no harm in an old acquaintance calling to see you? MARG. Anybody but you. GIL. Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me? I assure you, I come _only_ as an old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for yourself. [_Indicates the book._] MARG. What's that? GIL. My latest novel. MARG. Have you taken to writing novels? GIL. Certainly. MARG. Since when have you learned the trick? GIL. What do you mean? MARG. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your specialty, observation of daily events. GIL. [_excitedly_]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see who's to prevent my writing a novel. MARG. But the opinion of an authority was-- GIL. Pray, who's an authority? MARG. I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in the "Algemeine"-- GIL. [_angrily_]. Neumann's a blamed idiot! I boxed his ears for him once. MARG. You-- GIL. In effigy-- But you were quite as much wrought up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot. "How can such a numbskull dare"--these were your very words--"to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day you quote that literary hawker. MARG. Please do not shout. My housekeeper-- GIL. I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle.