28
Gilb.
(Points to himself)
Mag.
Whose chance fepresentation on earth you happened to be.
Gilb.
Ha, that’s rich? Where did you get it. A Frenchman would
say "C'est de la literature"
Mar.
(Macking him.)
"Ce Nöest pas de la literature“. It's true, it’s perfectly
true - or do you really think that thẽ slender youth' was meant
for you - that I sang of your curls? You were about even then
and those things there were never curls.
(She catches him by the hair.)
(Gilb. takes the opportunity of hissing her hand.)
Mag.
(more gently)
What's the matter any way?
Gilb.
You thought them so then. At all events, you called them
curls. Well, yes, one says anything for exphony, for the sake
of the rhyme. Didn’t I once call you “My Clever Madrid”
a sonnet? And you weren't really - - No, no, I won't be
unfair, - - you certainly were olever, congressly olyver,
odiously olever. And you have prospered - Besides it's not
surprising. You always were a snob. Vell, you have your wish