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CHILTERN. It isn’t a bracelet. It’s a brooch.

      LORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet. [Takes it from her, and, pulling out a green letter-case, puts the ornament carefully in it, and replaces the whole thing in his breast-pocket with the most perfect sang froid.]

      MABEL CHILTERN. What are you doing?

      LORD GORING. Miss Mabel, I am going to make a rather strange request to you.

      MABEL CHILTERN. [Eagerly.] Oh, pray do! I have been waiting for it all the evening.

      LORD GORING. [Is a little taken aback, but recovers himself.] Don’t mention to anybody that I have taken charge of this brooch. Should any one write and claim it, let me know at once.

      MABEL CHILTERN. That is a strange request.

      LORD GORING. Well, you see I gave this brooch to somebody once, years ago.

      MABEL CHILTERN. You did?

      LORD GORING. Yes.

      [LADY CHILTERN enters alone. The other guests have gone.]

      MABEL CHILTERN. Then I shall certainly bid you good-night. Good-night, Gertrude! [Exit.]

      LADY CHILTERN. Good-night, dear! [To LORD GORING.] You saw whom Lady Markby brought here tonight?

      LORD GORING. Yes. It was an unpleasant surprise. What did she come here for?

      LADY CHILTERN. Apparently to try and lure Robert to uphold some fraudulent scheme in which she is interested. The Argentine Canal, in fact.

      LORD GORING. She has mistaken her man, hasn’t she?

      LADY CHILTERN. She is incapable of understanding an upright nature like my husband’s!

      LORD GORING. Yes. I should fancy she came to grief if she tried to get Robert into her toils. It is extraordinary what astounding mistakes clever women make.

      LADY CHILTERN. I don’t call women of that kind clever. I call them stupid!

      LORD GORING. Same thing often. Good-night, Lady Chiltern!

      LADY CHILTERN. Good-night!

      [Enter SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, you are not going? Do stop a little!

      LORD GORING. Afraid I can’t, thanks. I have promised to look in at the Hartlocks’. I believe they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays mauve Hungarian music. See you soon. Goodbye!

      [Exit]

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. How beautiful you look tonight, Gertrude!

      LADY CHILTERN. Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn’t!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Starting.] Who told you I intended to do so?

      LADY CHILTERN. That woman who has just gone out, Mrs. Cheveley, as she calls herself now. She seemed to taunt me with it. Robert, I know this woman. You don’t. We were at school together. She was untruthful, dishonest, an evil influence on every one whose trust or friendship she could win. I hated, I despised her. She stole things, she was a thief. She was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you?

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, what you tell me may be true, but it happened many years ago. It is best forgotten! Mrs. Cheveley may have changed since then. No one should be entirely judged by their past.

      LADY CHILTERN. [Sadly.] One’s past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That is a hard saying, Gertrude!

      LADY CHILTERN. It is a true saying, Robert. And what did she mean by boasting that she had got you to lend your support, your name, to a thing I have heard you describe as the most dishonest and fraudulent scheme there has ever been in political life?

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Biting his lip.] I was mistaken in the view I took. We all may make mistakes.

      LADY CHILTERN. But you told me yesterday that you had received the report from the Commission, and that it entirely condemned the whole thing.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Walking up and down.] I have reasons now to believe that the Commission was prejudiced, or, at any rate, misinformed. Besides, Gertrude, public and private life are different things. They have different laws, and move on different lines.

      LADY CHILTERN. They should both represent man at his highest. I see no difference between them.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Stopping.] In the present case, on a matter of practical politics, I have changed my mind. That is all.

      LADY CHILTERN. All!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Sternly.] Yes!

      LADY CHILTERN. Robert! Oh! it is horrible that I should have to ask you such a question — Robert, are you telling me the whole truth?

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Why do you ask me such a question?

      LADY CHILTERN. [After a pause.] Why do you not answer it?

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Sitting down.] Gertrude, truth is a very complex thing, and politics is a very complex business. There are wheels within wheels. One may be under certain obligations to people that one must pay. Sooner or later in political life one has to compromise. Every one does.

      LADY CHILTERN. Compromise? Robert, why do you talk so differently tonight from the way I have always heard you talk? Why are you changed?

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I am not changed. But circumstances alter things.

      LADY CHILTERN. Circumstances should never alter principles!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. But if I told you —

      LADY CHILTERN. What?

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That it was necessary, vitally necessary?

      LADY CHILTERN. It can never be necessary to do what is not honourable. Or if it be necessary, then what is it that I have loved! But it is not, Robert; tell me it is not. Why should it be? What gain would you get? Money? We have no need of that! And money that comes from a tainted source is a degradation. Power? But power is nothing in itself. It is power to do good that is fine — that, and that only. What is it, then? Robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, you have no right to use that word. I told you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no more than that.

      LADY CHILTERN. Robert, that is all very well for other men, for men who treat life simply as a sordid speculation; but not for you, Robert, not for you. You are different. All your life you have stood apart from others. You have never let the world soil you. To the world, as to myself, you have been an ideal always. Oh! be that ideal still. That great inheritance throw not away — that tower of ivory do not destroy. Robert, men can love what is beneath them — things unworthy, stained, dishonoured. We women worship when we love; and when we lose our worship, we lose everything. Oh! don’t kill my love for you, don’t kill that!

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude!

      LADY CHILTERN. I know that there are men with horrible secrets in their lives — men who have done some shameful thing, and who in some critical moment have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame — oh! don’t tell me you are such as they are! Robert, is there in your life any secret dishonour or disgrace? Tell me, tell me at once, that —

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. That what?

      LADY CHILTERN. [Speaking very slowly.] That our lives may drift apart.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Drift apart?

      LADY CHILTERN. That they may be entirely separate. It would be better for us both.

      SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you might not know.

      LADY CHILTERN. I was sure of it, Robert, I was sure of it.

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