Clement. Ah good—we're back on that subject again!
Margaret. Yes—and that's the thing that always hurts me, that you can't feel with me there.
Clement. "Can't feel with you" ... I like that! I can feel with you all right—but you know what it was I always disliked about your scribbling, and you know that it's a very personal thing.
Margaret. Well, there are women who in my situation at that time would have done worse things than write poetry.
Clement. But such poetry! (He picks up a little book on the mantelpiece.) That's the whole question. I can assure you, every time I see it lying there, every-time I even think of it, I'm ashamed to think it's yours.
Margaret. You simply don't understand it. No, you mustn't be vexed with me; if you had just that one thing more, you'd be perfect—and that probably is not to be. But what is it that disturbs you in the verses? You surely know that I haven't experienced anything like that.
Clement. I hope not!
Margaret. You know it's all imagination.
Clement. But then I can't help asking myself ... how comes a lady to have such an imagination? (Reads.)
"So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck And suck thy lips' drained sweetness ..."