MARG. You don't know why he objects to my writing. Purely out of love. He feels that if I go on I will be living in a world entirely apart from him. He blushes at the thought that I should make copy of the most sacred feelings of my soul for unknown people to read. It is his wish that I belong to him only, and that is why he dashed out--no, not dashed out--for Clement doesn't belong to the class that dashes out. GIL. Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went away. We will not undertake to discuss the _tempo_ of his going forth. And he went away because he could not bear to see you surrender yourself to the creative impulse. MARG. Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of course, that can never be! I could be the best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the world if the right man only existed. GIL. At all events, you admit he is not the right man. MARG. I never said that! GIL. But you ought to realize that he's fettering you, undoing you utterly, seeking through egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. Look back for a moment at the Margaret you were; at the freedom that was yours while you loved me. Think of the younger set who gathered about me and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those days? Do you never call to mind the small room with its balcony--Beneath us plunged the Isar--[_He seizes her hand and presses her near._] MARG. Ah! GIL. All's not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar, need it? I have something to propose to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, that you still have some important matters to arrange at Munich, and spend the time with me. Margaret, you are so lovely! We shall be happy again as then. Do you remember [_very near her_] "Abandoned on thy breast and--" MARG. [_retreating brusquely from him_]. Go, go away. No, no. Please go away. I don't love you any more. GIL. Oh, h'm--indeed! Oh, in that case I beg your pardon. [_Pause._] Adieu, Margaret. MARG. Adieu. GIL. Won't you present me with a copy of your novel as a parting gift, as I have done? MARG. It hasn't come out yet. It won't be on sale before next week. GIL. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of a story is it? MARG. The story of my life. So veiled, to be sure, that I am in no danger of being recognized. GIL. I see. How did you manage to do it? MARG. Very simple. For one thing, the heroine is not a writer but a painter. GIL. Very clever. MARG. Her first husband is not a cotton manufacturer, but a big financier, and, of course, it wouldn't do to deceive him with a tenor-- GIL. Ha! Ha! MARG. What strikes you so funny? GIL. So you deceived him with a tenor? I didn't know that. MARG. Whoever said so? GIL. Why, you yourself, just now. MARG. How so? I say the heroine of the book deceives her husband with a baritone. GIL. Bass would have been more sublime, mezzo-soprano more piquant. MARG. Then she doesn't go to Munich, but to Dresden; and there, has an affair with a sculptor.