Margaret (uneasily). Dearest, you forget that a poet doesn't always tell the truth. We tell things which we haven't experienced at all, but what we've dreamed, invented.
Clement. My dear Margaret, I wish you wouldn't always keep saying "we." Thank heaven, you're out of that sort of thing now!
Margaret. Who knows?
Clement. What do you mean by that?
Margaret (tenderly). Clem, I really must tell you?
Clement. Why, what's up now?
Margaret. Well, I'm not out of it—I haven't given up writing.
Clement. You mean by that ...?
Margaret. Just what I say—that I'm still writing, or at least that I have written something. Yes, this impulse is stronger than other people can conceive. I believe I should have gone to pieces if I hadn't written.
Clement. Well, what have you been writing this time?