Clem. Yes. Of course. I don't feel called upon to make a brief for my class. Profligates crop up everywhere, even among writers, I understand. But, don't you know it was very bad taste on his part while one of us was present?
Marg. That's just like him.
Clem. I had to hold myself in check not to knock him down.
Marg. In spite of that, he was quite interesting. And, then, you mustn't forget he was raving jealous of you.
Clem. I thought I noticed that, too. [Pause.]
Marg. Good heavens, they were all jealous of you. Naturally enough—you were so unlike them. They all paid court to me because I wouldn't discriminate in favor of any one of them. You certainly must have noticed that, eh? Why are you laughing?
Clem. Comical—is no word for it! If some one had prophesied to me that I was going to marry a regular frequenter of the Café Maxmillian—I fancied the two young painters most. They'd have made an incomparable vaudeville team. Do you know, they resembled each other so much and owned everything they possessed in common—and, if I'm not mistaken, the Russian on the ladder along with the rest.
Marg. I didn't bother myself with such things.
Clem. And, then, both must have been Jews?
Marg. Why so?