GILBERT. Oh, it's only temporary, I know. For furnished rooms they aren't bad. To be sure, these family portraits on the walls would drive me to distraction. MARGARET. My landlady is the widow of a general. GILBERT. Oh, you needn't apologize. MARGARET. Apologize ...? I wasn't thinking of it. GILBERT. It's very queer, when one comes to think ... MARGARET. To think of what? GILBERT. Why shouldn't I say it? Of the little room in the Steinsdorfer Strasse, with the balcony looking out on the Isar. Do you remember it, Margaret? MARGARET. Do you think you'd better call me Margaret ... now? GILBERT. As you please ... (Pause. Suddenly.) You know really you behaved very badly ... MARGARET. What? GILBERT. Or do you prefer that I should speak in paraphrases? Unfortunately I can't find any other expression for your conduct. And it was all so unnecessary--it would have been just as well to be honest with me. There was nothing to be gained by stealing away from Munich in the dead of night. MARGARET. It wasn't the dead of night--I left Munich by the express at 8.30 A. M., in bright sunshine. GILBERT. Well, anyhow, you might just as well have said good-by, mightn't you? (Sits.) MARGARET. The Baron may come in at any moment. GILBERT. Well, what if he does? You surely haven't told him that once upon a time you lay in my arms and adored me. I am just an old acquaintance from Munich--and as such I have surely the right to call on you! MARGARET. Any other old acquaintance--not you. GILBERT. Why? You persist in misunderstanding me. I am really here only as an old acquaintance. Everything else is over--long ago over ... Well, you'll see there. (Points to his book.) MARGARET. What book is that? GILBERT. My latest novel. MARGARET. Oh, you're writing novels? GILBERT. To be sure. MARGARET. Since when have you risen to that? GILBERT. What do you mean? MARGARET. Oh, I remember that your real field was the small sketch, the observation of trivial daily occurrences ... GILBERT (excitedly). My field ...? My field is the world! I write what I choose to write--I don't allow any bounds to be set to my genius. I don't know what should prevent me from writing a novel. MARGARET. Well, the standard critics used to say ... GILBERT. What standard critic do you mean? MARGARET. I remember, for example, a feuilleton of Neumann's in the _Allgemeine_ ... GILBERT (angrily). Neumann is an idiot! I've given him a blow in the face. MARGARET. You've given him ...? GILBERT. Oh, not literally ... Margaret, you used to be as disgusted with him as I was--we agreed entirely in the view that Neumann was an idiot. "How can that mere cipher dare ..."--those were your very words, Margaret, "How can he dare to set limits to you--to strangle your next book before its birth?" That's what you said! And now you appeal to that charlatan! MARGARET. Please don't shout so. My landlady ... GILBERT. I can't bother with thinking about generals' widows when ray nerves are on edge.