Margaret. And so you think the credit of them is really yours?
Gilbert. Would you have written them if I had never existed? Weren't they written to me?
Margaret. No.
Gilbert. What? Not written to me? Oh, that's monstrous!
Margaret. No, they were not written to you.
Gilbert. You take my breath away! Shall I remind you of the situations in which your finest verses had their origin?
Margaret. They were addressed to an ideal ... (Gilbert points to himself.) ... whose earthly representative you happened to be.
Gilbert. Ha! That's fine! Where did you get it? Do you know what the French say in such circumstances? "That is literature!"
Margaret (imitating his tone). "That is not literature!" That is the truth—the absolute truth. Or do you really believe that I meant you by the slender youth—that I sang hymns of praise to your locks? Even in those days you were ... well, not slender; and I shouldn't call this locks. (Passes her hand over his hair. Taking the opportunity, he seizes her hand and kisses it. In a softer voice.) What are you thinking of?
Gilbert. You thought so in those days—or at least that was your name for it. Ah, what won't poets say for the sake of a smooth verse, a sounding rhyme? Didn't I call you once, in a sonnet, "my wise maiden?" And all the time you were neither ... No, I mustn't be unjust to you—you were wise, confoundedly wise, revoltingly wise! And it has paid you. But one oughtn't to be surprised; you were always a snob at heart. Well, now you've got what you wanted. You caught your prey, your blue-blooded youth with the well-kept hands and the neglected brain, the splendid rider, fencer, shot, tennis-player, heart-breaker—Marlitt couldn't have invented anything more disgusting. What more do you want? Whether it will always content you, that knew something higher once, is of course another question. I can only say this one thing to you—in my eyes you are a renegade from love.