by no more than the memory of a few wild nighta a few
dous conversations in the walks of the English garden
le I have made an art-work of it.
ARGARET: I have, too.
LIBERT: How? What do you mean?
ARGARET: What you have achieved, I too have achieved.
ave written a novel in which our former relations play a
it, and our love - or what we called love - I have
selved for eternity.
ILBERT: were I in your place, I should'nt speak of
nity before the second edition appeared.
MARGARET: Well, it is different when I write a novel than
on you do.
ILBERT: Oh, undoubtedly.
MARGARET: For you are a man, free - you need not count
bours in which you dare be an artist, and you don’t take
future on it.
SILBERT: and you?
MARGARET: I have done so. Lese than half an hour ago
mens left me because I confessed to him that I had
ditten a novel.
OILBERT: Left you for good?
MARGARET: I don't know. It is possible. He went away in