Clem. Quite so. No question about that. As a matter of principle, you realize, I've no grudge against the cotton industry.
Marg. Even if my husband happened to be the owner of a cotton mill, that didn't have to effect my personal outlook on life, did it? I always sought culture in my own way. Now, don't let's talk of that period of my life. It's dead and buried, thank heaven!
Clem. Yes. But there's another period which lies nearer.
Marg. I know. But why mention it?
Clem. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in Munich—at least, as far as I am able to judge.
Marg. I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those friends in whose company you first made my acquaintance.
Clem. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it's incomprehensible to me how you ever got amongst those people.
Marg. You speak of them as if they were a gang of criminals.
Clem. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, some of them looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your refined taste—let alone your purity and the scent you used—could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat at the same table with them?
Marg. [laughing]. Didn't you do the same?