Clem. I grant you, there was some excuse in your having written it; but it doesn't follow that it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll throw it into the fire.
Marg. Clem!
Clem. I make that request. I have a right to make it.
Marg. Impossible! It simply—
Clem. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our whole future depends on it. Do you understand? Is it still impossible?
Marg. But, Clement, the novel has already been printed.
Clem. What! Printed?
Marg. Yes. In a few days it will be on sale on all the book-stalls.
Clem. Margaret, you did all that without a word to me—?
Marg. I couldn't do otherwise. When once you see it, you will forgive me. More than that, you will be proud.