Indeedi.
Marg:
I owe you an explanation. This: At the moment when you
Gil:
were beginning to Grift away from me, when home-sickness
for the stables gripped you--la mostalgie de l'ecurie-
at that very moment I was forwardly done with you.
Impossible.
Marg:
You failed to notice the least sign in your characteristic
G11
way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need
you any longer. What you had to give, you gave me.
Your uses were donfilled. In the Iepths of your soul
you know, unconsciously you knew--
Please don't get so hot.
Marg:
(unruffled) That our day was over. Our relations had
Gil:
served their purpose. I don't regret having levied you.
Marg: I do;
Capital! This measly outburst must revealed to a man of
Gil:
any insight just one thing: the essential line of
difference between the artist and the dillotante To
you, Margareton, our lisson means nothing more than
the memory of a few abandoned elghts, a few heart-to-heart
taiks in the tortous ways of the English garden. But
I have made it over into a work of art.
So have I;
Marg:
Eh? What do you mean?
Gil:
I have done what you have done. I, too, have written a
Marg:
novel in which our relations are depteted. I too have
embalmed our love-or what we thought was our love--for
all time.
Gil: If I were you, I would'nt talk of 'for all time' before the
appearance of the secondKdition.
Marg: Your writing a novel and my writing & novel are two differ-
ent things.
Gil: Maybe.
dans une lettre est
dans le dernier des