Marg: You are a free man. You don't have to steel your hours
devoter to artistic labor. And your future does'nt
depend on the throw.
And you?
Gil:
Marg: That's what I'Ve done. Only a half hour ago Clement left
me because I confessed to him that I had written a novel.
Loft you—for good?
Gil:
Marg: I don’t know? But it is’mt unlikely. He went away in a
fit of anger. What he'll decide to do, I can't predict.
So he objects to your writing, does he? He can't bear to
Gil:
hie his mistress put her intelligence to some use. Capital;
And he representa the blood of the country into the burgain.
H’m; And you, you’re not ashamed to give yourself up to
the arms of an idiet of this sort, whom you once – –
Don't you speak of him like that. You don’t know him.
Marg:
Ha!
Gil:
You don’t know why he objects to my writing. Purly
Marg:
out of love. He feel that if I continue, I will be
dwelling in a world entirely apart from him. He
blushes at the thought that I should make copy of the
most sacred feeling of my soul for unknown people to
read. It is his wish that I belong to him only, and
that is why he desired out --no, not desired out--for
Clement does'nt belong to the class that dahhes out.
Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went away.
Gil:
We will not Undertake to discuss the tempo of his going
forth. And he went away because he could not bear to see
you surrender yourself to the creative impulse.
Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of course,
Marg:
that can never be. I could be the best, the faithfullest,
the noblest woman in the world, if the right man only
existed.
Gil: At all events, you admit he is not the right man.
Marg: I never said that;