Margaret. Oh, you're writing novels?
Gilbert. To be sure.
Margaret. Since when have you risen to that?
Gilbert. What do you mean?
Margaret. Oh, I remember that your real field was the small sketch, the observation of trivial daily occurrences ...
Gilbert (excitedly). My field ...? My field is the world! I write what I choose to write—I don't allow any bounds to be set to my genius. I don't know what should prevent me from writing a novel.
Margaret. Well, the standard critics used to say ...
Gilbert. What standard critic do you mean?
Margaret. I remember, for example, a feuilleton of Neumann's in the Allgemeine ...
Gilbert (angrily). Neumann is an idiot! I've given him a blow in the face.