Tell me truly, Clem, would'nt you be proud if your
Marg:
fiancee', your wife, were to be oome a great and famous
weiter.
Clem: I have already told you. I am rooted in my decision.
And I promise you, that if you begin scribbling or
publish pooms in which you paint your passion for me,
and sing to the world the progress of our love--it’s all
up with our Wedding and off I go.
You threaten--you, who have had a doesn well-known affairs.
Marg¬
My dear, well-known or not, I did'nt tell anybody, I
Clem:
did'nt bring out a book whenever a woman abandoned her-
self on my breast, so that any Tom, Dick or Harry, who
would, could buy it for a Gulden and a half. There's
the rub. I know there are people who thrive by it, but,
as for me, I find it entirely coarse. It's more de¬
Grading to me than if you were to poso as a Greek Goddesa
in flesh--colored tights at Ronacher’s. A Greek statue
like that does’nt say “Mew,” But a written who makes
copy of everything goes beyond the mosely humoreus.
(nervously) Dearest, you forget that the post does not
Marg:
always tell the truth.
Clem: And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any
better?
It is'nt called vaperizing: it's "distellation"
Marg:
What sort of an expression is that?
Clem:
Marg: Welelese things we never experienced, things we dreamed--
plainly desvented.
Clem: Den’t say “we” any more, Margarett». Thank-goodness, that
is past.
Marg: Vho knowsi
Clem: What?
Marg: (tenderly) Clement, I must tell you all.
Clem: What is it?