Gil. I've another quite as apt. Formerly you were a woman; now you're a "sweet thing." Yes, that's it. What attracted you to a man of that type? Passion—frank and filthy passion—
Marg. Stop! You have a motive—
Gil. My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a soul.
Marg. Except now and then.
Gil. Please don't try to disparage our former relations. It's no use. They are the noblest experiences you've ever had.
Marg. Heavens, when I think that I endured this twaddle for one whole year I—
Gil. Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try to be ungrateful. I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never so execrably at the end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon it with bitterness. It had to come just that way.
Marg. Indeed!
Gil. I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment when you were beginning to drift away from me, when homesickness for the stables gripped you—la nostalgie de l'écurie—at that moment I was done with you.
Marg. Impossible.