CLEMENT. I sat down near them--not with them. And you know it was for your sake, exclusively for your sake, that I did it. I won't deny that some of them improved on closer acquaintance; there were some really interesting people among them. And you mustn't get the idea, darling, that when I'm among ill-dressed people I have a feeling of conscious superiority. It's not that--but there's something in their whole bearing, in their very nature, that makes one nervous. MARGARET. Oh, I think that's rather a sweeping statement. CLEMENT. Now don't get offended with me, darling. I've just said there were some very interesting people among them. But how a _lady_ can feel at home with them for any length of time, I shall never be able to understand. MARGARET. You forget one thing, my dear Clement--that in a certain sense I belong to their circle, or did belong to it. CLEMENT. You--I beg your pardon! MARGARET. They were artists. CLEMENT. Ah good--we're back on that subject again! MARGARET. Yes--and that's the thing that always hurts me, that you can't feel with me there. CLEMENT. "Can't feel with you" ... I like that! I can feel with you all right--but you know what it was I always disliked about your scribbling, and you know that it's a very personal thing. MARGARET. Well, there are women who in my situation at that time would have done worse things than write poetry. CLEMENT. But such poetry! (He picks up a little book on the mantelpiece.) That's the whole question. I can assure you, every time I see it lying there, everytime I even think of it, I'm ashamed to think it's yours. MARGARET. You simply don't understand it. No, you mustn't be vexed with me; if you had just that one thing more, you'd be perfect--and that probably is not to be. But what is it that disturbs you in the verses? You surely know that I haven't experienced anything like that. CLEMENT. I hope not! MARGARET. You know it's all imagination. CLEMENT. But then I can't help asking myself ... how comes a lady to have such an imagination? (Reads.) "So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck And suck thy lips' drained sweetness ..." (Shakes his head.) How can a lady write such stuff, or allow it to be printed? Everybody who reads it must call up a picture of the authoress and the neck and ... the intoxication. MARGARET. When I give you my word that such a neck has never existed ... CLEMENT. No, I can't believe that it has. Lucky for me that I can't--and ... for you too, Margaret. But how did you ever come by such fancies? All these glowing emotions can't possibly be referred to your first husband--you told me yourself he never understood you. MARGARET. Of course he didn't--that's why I got a divorce from him. You know all about that. I simply couldn't exist by the side of a man who had no ideas beyond eating and drinking and cotton. CLEMENT. Yes, I know. But all that's three years ago--and you wrote the verses later.