Clement. That's all right—but you didn't go there with that purpose in view.
Margaret. I went because I wanted to be free—inwardly free. I wanted to see if I could make the thing go on my own resources. And you must admit that it looked as if I should be able to. I was on the road to becoming famous. (Clement looks at her dubiously.) But I cared more for you than even for fame.
Clement (good-naturedly). And I'm a bit more dependable.
Margaret. I wasn't thinking about that. I loved you from the very first moment—that was the thing that counted. I had always dreamed of some one just like you; I had always known that no other sort of man could make me happy. Blood isn't a mere empty word; it's the only thing that counts. Do you know, that's why I always have a kind of idea ...
Clement. What?
Margaret. At least now and then the thought comes to me that there may be some noble blood in my veins too.
Clement. How so?
Margaret. Well, it would be a possibility.
Clement. I don't understand.
Margaret. I told you that there used to be aristocratic visitors at my parents' house ...