Gil. What do you mean?
Marg. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your specialty, observation of daily events.
Gil. [excitedly]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see who's to prevent my writing a novel.
Marg. But the opinion of an authority was—
Gil. Pray, who's an authority?
Marg. I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in the "Algemeine"—
Gil. [angrily]. Neumann's a blamed idiot! I boxed his ears for him once.
Marg. You—
Gil. In effigy— But you were quite as much wrought up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot. "How can such a numbskull dare"—these were your very words—"to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day you quote that literary hawker.
Marg. Please do not shout. My housekeeper—