Margaret. What? Where?
Gilbert. In my novel.
Margaret. What's in your novel?
Gilbert. Our letters ... yours and mine.
Margaret. How did you get yours, then, since I have them? Ah, you see you wrote rough drafts too!
Gilbert. Oh no—I only made copies of them before I sent them to you. I didn't want them to be lost. There are some in the book that you never got; they were too good for you—you'd never have understood them.
Margaret. For heaven's sake, is that true? (Quickly turns over the leaves of Gilbert's book.) Yes, it is! Oh, it's just as if we told the whole world that we had ... Oh, good gracious ...! (Excitedly turning over the leaves.) You don't mean to tell me you put in the one I wrote you the morning after the first night ...
Gilbert. Of course I did—it was really brilliant.
Margaret. But that's too dreadful! It'll be a European scandal. And Clement ... heavens! I'm beginning to wish that he may not come back. I'm lost—and you with me! Wherever you go, he'll know how to find you—he'll shoot you down like a mad dog!
Gilbert (puts his book in his pocket). A comparison in very poor taste.