Clement. Well, and if there were ...?
Margaret. Who knows ...?
Clement. Oh, I say, Margaret! How can you talk of such things!
Margaret. Oh, when you're about one can never say what one thinks! That's the only thing the matter with you—if it weren't for that you'd be perfect. (She nestles up to him.) I do love you so tremendously. The very first evening, when you came into the café with Wangenheim, I knew it at once—knew that you were the man for me. You know you strode in among those people like a being from another world.
Clement. I hope so. And you, thank goodness, didn't look as if you belonged to that one. No ... when I remember that crowd—the Russian girl, for example, who looked like a student with her close-cropped hair, only that she didn't wear the cap ...
Margaret. She's a very talented artist, the Baranzewich.
Clement. I know—you showed her to me in the Pinakothek, standing on a ladder, copying pictures. And then the fellow with the Polish name ...
Margaret (begins to recall the name). Zrkd ...
Clement. Oh, don't bother—you won't need to pronounce it any more. Once he delivered a lecture in the café, when I was there, without seeming in the least embarrassed.
Margaret. He's a great genius—you may take my word for it.