Gil. I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle.
Marg. What did I say? I can't account for your touchiness.
Gil. Touchiness! You call me touchy? You! Who used to be seized with a violent fit of trembling every time some insignificant booby or some trumpery sheet happened to utter an unfavorable word of criticism.
Marg. I don't remember one word of unfavorable criticism against me.
Gil. H'm! I dare say you may be right. Critics are always chivalrous toward beautiful women.
Marg. Chivalrous? Do you think my poems were praised out of chivalry? What about your own estimate—
Gil. Mine? I'm not going to retract so much as one little word. I simply want to remind you that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems while we were living together.
Marg. And you actually consider yourself worthy of them?
Gil. Would you have written them if it weren't for me? They are addressed to me.
Marg. Never!