Rough drafts ...! Of those letters to me that seemed to be
dashed off in quivering haste? "Just one word more, dearest, before I
sleep--my eyes are closing already ..." and then, when your eyes had
quite closed, you wrote me off a fair copy?

MARGARET. Well, have you anything to complain of?

GILBERT. I might have suspected it. I suppose I ought to congratulate
myself that they weren't borrowed from a Lover's Manual. Oh, how
everything crumbles around me ... the whole past is in ruins! She kept
rough drafts of her letters!

MARGARET. You ought to be glad. Who knows whether my letters to you
will not be the only thing people will remember about you?

GILBERT. But it's an extremely awkward situation for another reason ...

MARGARET. What is that?

GILBERT (points to his book). You see, they're all in there too.

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.

MARGARET. How came you by that insane idea? The letters of a woman whom
you professed to love ...! It's easy to see that you are no gentleman.

GILBERT. Oh, that's too amusing! Didn't you do exactly the same thing?

MARGARET. I am a woman.

GILBERT. You remember it now!

MARGARET. It is true--I have nothing to boast of over you. We are
worthy of each other. Yes ... Clement was right; we are worse than the
women at the Ronacher who exhibit themselves in tights. Our most hidden
bliss,