MARGARET. Yes ... But just think of the position in which I found myself ... CLEMENT. What sort of a position? You hadn't any privations to put up with, had you? From that point of view your husband, to give him his due, behaved really very well. You weren't forced to earn your own living. And even if they gave you a hundred florins for a poem--they certainly wouldn't give more--you weren't obliged to write a book like that. MARGARET. Clement, dear, I didn't mean the word "position" in a material sense; I meant the position in which my soul was. Haven't you any conception ...? When you first met me, it was much better--to a certain extent I had found myself; but at first ...! I was so helpless and distracted. I did everything I could--I painted, I even gave English lessons in the boardinghouse where I was living. Just think what it was like, to be there as a divorced woman at twenty-two, to have no one ... CLEMENT. Why didn't you stay quietly in Vienna? MARGARET. Because I was not on good terms with my family. No one has really understood me. Oh, these people ...! Do you suppose any of my relations could conceive that one should want anything else from life except a husband and pretty clothes and a position in society! Oh, good heavens ...! If I had had a child, things might have been very different--and again they might not. I am a very complex creature. But after all, what have you to complain of! Wasn't my going to Munich the best thing I could have done? How else should I ever have known you! CLEMENT. That's all right--but you didn't go there with that purpose in view. MARGARET. I went because I wanted to be free--inwardly free. I wanted to see if I could make the thing go on my own resources. And you must admit that it looked as if I should be able to. I was on the road to becoming famous. (CLEMENT looks at her dubiously.) But I cared more for you than even for fame. CLEMENT (good-naturedly). And I'm a bit more dependable. MARGARET. I wasn't thinking about that. I loved you from the very first moment--that was the thing that counted. I had always dreamed of some one just like you; I had always known that no other sort of man could make me happy. Blood isn't a mere empty word; it's the only thing that counts. Do you know, that's why I always have a kind of idea ... CLEMENT. What? MARGARET. At least now and then the thought comes to me that there may be some noble blood in my veins too. CLEMENT. How so? MARGARET. Well, it would be a possibility. CLEMENT. I don't understand. MARGARET. I told you that there used to be aristocratic visitors at my parents' house ... CLEMENT. Well, and if there were ...? MARGARET. Who knows ...? CLEMENT. Oh, I say, Margaret! How can you talk of such things!