Mag.
Please don't sputter so.
Gilb.
(Not ’confused)
That your day was over.
Our relations had reached their final
goal. I do not regret that I loved you.
Mag.
Yes, but I -
Gilb.
Perfect. In this little exclamation the connaisseur can recog¬
nize all the distance between the personality of the artist
and of the amateur. To you, Margaret, our relations mean no
more than the remembrance of a couple of mad elghts, a few
long and earnest talk, as we walked under the trees in the
English garden - I have turned them into a work of art.
Mag.
So have I.
Gilb.
How? What do you mean?
Mag.
What you hit on, I hit on too, by the Lord. I have written
a novel too. One in which our quondam relations and our
quondam love - or what we calidd love, are preserved to im-
mortality.
Gilb.
I wouldn’t talk of immortality until the second edition is out.