Gil. Do you take refuge in that now?
Marg. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to reproach you with. We were made for one another. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse than those women who appear in flesh-colored tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs—everything—we make copy of everything. Pfui! Pfui! It's sickening. We two belong to one another. Clement would only be doing what is right if he drove me away. [Suddenly.] Come, Amandus.
Gil. What is it?
Marg. I accept your proposal.
Gil. What proposal?
Marg. I'm going to cut it with you. [Looks for her hat and cloak.]
Gil. Eh? What do you mean?
Marg. [very much excited; puts her hat on tightly]. Everything can be as it was. You've said it. It needn't be the Isar—well, I'm ready.
Gil. Sheer madness! Cut it—what's the meaning of this? Didn't you yourself say a minute ago that he'd find me anywhere. If you're with me, he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. Wouldn't it be better if each—
Marg. Wretch! Now you want to leave me in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you were on your knees before me. Have you no conscience?