Margaret. A novel. I had too much in my breast that wanted to be said—I should have choked if I hadn't got it out. I haven't said anything about it before—but of course I had to tell you sooner or later. Künigel is delighted with it.
Clement. Who is Künigel?
Margaret. My publisher.
Clement. Then somebody's read the thing already?
Margaret. Yes—and many more will read it. Clement, you'll be proud—believe me!
Clement. You're mistaken, my dear child. I think you have ... Well, what sort of things have you put into it?
Margaret. That's not so easy to explain in one word. The book contains, so to say, the best of what is to be said about things.
Clement. Brava!
Margaret. And so I am able to promise you that from this time on I shan't touch a pen. There's no more need.
Clement. Margaret, do you love me or not?