Clem. I hope so. And I thank heaven that somehow you didn't seem to be altogether one of them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that junto—the Russian girl, for instance, who because of her close-cropped hair gave the appearance of a student—except that she did not wear a cap—
Marg. Baranzewitsch is a very gifted painter.
Clem. No doubt. You pointed her out to me one day in the picture gallery. She was standing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then the fellow with the Polish name—
Marg. [beginning]. Zrkd—
Clem. Spare yourself the pains. You don't have to use it now any more. He read something at the café while I was there, without putting himself out the least bit.
Marg. He's a man of extraordinary talent. I'll vouch for it.
Clem. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented at the café. And then that yokel, that insufferable—
Marg. Who?
Clem. You know whom I mean. That fellow who persisted in making tactless observations about the aristocracy.
Marg. Gilbert. You must mean Gilbert.