15.
Gil: Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me? I assure
you, I come only as an olddesuaintance. Everything else
is dead and buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for
yourself, (indicates the book).
Marg: What's that?
My la test novel.
Gil:
You have taken to writing novels?
Marg:
certainly.
Gil:
Since when have you learned the trick.
Marg:
What do you mean?
Gil:
Heavens, can’t I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your
Marg:
specialty, observations of daily events.
(excitedly) My society? My specialty is life itself.
Gil:
write what suite me. I do not allow myself to be cir
cumscribed. I don't see who’s to prevent my writing a
novel.
But the opinion of an authority was – –
Marg:
Pray, who's an authority?
Gil:
I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in
Marg:
the "common--"
(angrily) Neumann's a /blamed’idiot! Iicxed hie aare for
Gil:
him once.
Marg: You—?
In fauey—. But you were quite as much brought up about
Gil:
the business as I, at the time. We were perfectly agreed
that Neumann was a /blamed’idiot. ”How can such a piece
of trash dare--" these were your very words, " to set
bounds to your genus? How can he date to stifle your
next work still, so to speak, in the womb?” You said
that! And today you quote that literary hauker!
Marg: Plesse do not shout. My house--Koeper--
Gil: I don't pronse to brother myself about the widow of
defunct generale when overy nerve in my body is a-tingle.
Marg: What did I say? I can't account for your touchiness.