Gil. You failed to notice the least sign in your characteristic way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need you any longer. What you had to give you gave me. Your uses were fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, unconsciously you knew—
Marg. Please don't get so hot.
Gil. [unruffled]. That our day was over. Our relations had served their purpose. I don't regret having loved you.
Marg. I do!
Gil. Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a person of any insight just one thing: the essential line of difference between the artist and the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our liaison means nothing more than the memory of a few abandoned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in the winding ways of the English gardens. But I have made it over into a work of art.
Marg. So have I!
Gil. Eh? What do you mean?
Marg. I have done what you have done. I, too, have written a novel in which our relations are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love—or what we thought was our love—for all time.
Gil. If I were you, I wouldn't talk of "for all time" before the appearance of the second edition.
Marg. Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are two different things.