Clem. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked about your books.
Gil. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was speaking about my new novel.
Clem. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? Or—let me see—is it distilled?
Gil. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about our life-experiences.
Clem. H'm. That's good to know.
Gil. Yes, if you're painting the character of Nero, in my opinion it's absolutely necessary that you should have set fire to Rome—
Clem. Naturally.
Gil. From what source should a writer derive his inspiration if not from himself? Where should he go for his models if not to the life which is nearest to him? [Margaret becomes more and more uneasy.]
Clem. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such people know anything—[Sharply.] In decent society, sir, that's the same as compromising a woman!
Gil. I don't know whether I belong to decent society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it's the same as ennobling a woman.