Margaret. You've given him ...?
Gilbert. Oh, not literally ... Margaret, you used to be as disgusted with him as I was—we agreed entirely in the view that Neumann was an idiot. "How can that mere cipher dare ..."—those were your very words, Margaret, "How can he dare to set limits to you—to strangle your next book before its birth?" That's what you said! And now you appeal to that charlatan!
Margaret. Please don't shout so. My landlady ...
Gilbert. I can't bother with thinking about generals' widows when ray nerves are on edge.
Margaret, But what did I say? I really can't understand your being so sensitive.
Gilbert. Sensitive? You call it being sensitive? You, who used to quiver from head to foot if the merest scribbler in the most obscure rag ventured to say a word of criticism!
Margaret. I don't remember that ever any disparaging words have been written about me.
Gilbert. Oh ...? Well, you may be right. People are usually gallant to a pretty woman.
Margaret. Gallant ...? So they used to praise my poems only out of gallantry? And your own verdict ...
Gilbert. Mine ...? I needn't take back anything that I said—I may confine myself to remarking that your few really beautiful poems were written in our time.