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.

MARGARET, But what did I say? I really can't understand your being so
sensitive.

GILBERT. Sensitive? You call it being sensitive? You, who used to
quiver from head to foot if the merest scribbler in the most obscure
rag ventured to say a word of criticism!

MARGARET. I don't remember that ever any disparaging words have been
written about me.

GILBERT. Oh ...? Well, you may be right. People are usually gallant to
a pretty woman.

MARGARET. Gallant ...? So they used to praise my poems only out of
gallantry? And your own verdict ...

GILBERT. Mine ...? I needn't take back anything that I said--I may
confine myself to remarking that your few r