Clem. Next to them—not with them. And for your sake—merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice, however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaintance. There were some interesting people among them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold myself superior to those who happen to be shabbily dressed. That's nothing against them. But there was something in their conduct, in their manners, which was positively revolting.
Marg. It wasn't quite so bad.
Clem. Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some interesting people among them. But that a lady should feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend to understand.
Marg. You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense I'm one of them—or was at one time.
Clem. Now, please! For my sake!
Marg. They were artists.
Clem. Thank goodness, we've returned to the old theme.
Marg. Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose sight of that fact.
Clem. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know what pained me in your writings—things entirely personal.
Marg. Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in my situation, would have done worse than write poetry.