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behaving very well.

      Algernon. I’m feeling very well, Aunt Augusta.

      Lady Bracknell. That’s not quite the same thing. In fact the two things rarely go together. [Sees Jack and bows to him with icy coldness.]

      Algernon. [To Gwendolen.] Dear me, you are smart!

      Gwendolen. I am always smart! Am I not, Mr. Worthing?

      Jack. You’re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.

      Gwendolen. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for developments, and I intend to develop in many directions. [Gwendolen and Jack sit down together in the corner.]

      Lady Bracknell. I’m sorry if we are a little late, Algernon, but I was obliged to call on dear Lady Harbury. I hadn’t been there since her poor husband’s death. I never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years younger. And now I’ll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you promised me.

      Algernon. Certainly, Aunt Augusta. [Goes over to tea-table.]

      Lady Bracknell. Won’t you come and sit here, Gwendolen?

      Gwendolen. Thanks, mamma, I’m quite comfortable where I am.

      Algernon. [Picking up empty plate in horror.] Good heavens! Lane! Why are there no cucumber sandwiches? I ordered them specially.

      Lane. [Gravely.] There were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. I went down twice.

      Algernon. No cucumbers!

      Lane. No, sir. Not even for ready money.

      Algernon. That will do, Lane, thank you.

      Lane. Thank you, sir. [Goes out.]

      Algernon. I am greatly distressed, Aunt Augusta, about there being no cucumbers, not even for ready money.

      Lady Bracknell. It really makes no matter, Algernon. I had some crumpets with Lady Harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now.

      Algernon. I hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief.

      Lady Bracknell. It certainly has changed its colour. From what cause I, of course, cannot say. [Algernon crosses and hands tea.] Thank you. I’ve quite a treat for you tonight, Algernon. I am going to send you down with Mary Farquhar. She is such a nice woman, and so attentive to her husband. It’s delightful to watch them.

      Algernon. I am afraid, Aunt Augusta, I shall have to give up the pleasure of dining with you tonight after all.

      Lady Bracknell. [Frowning.] I hope not, Algernon. It would put my table completely out. Your uncle would have to dine upstairs. Fortunately he is accustomed to that.

      Algernon. It is a great bore, and, I need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me, but the fact is I have just had a telegram to say that my poor friend Bunbury is very ill again. [Exchanges glances with Jack.] They seem to think I should be with him.

      Lady Bracknell. It is very strange. This Mr. Bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health.

      Algernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.

      Lady Bracknell. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. Nor do I in any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. Health is the primary duty of life. I am always telling that to your poor uncle, but he never seems to take much notice … as far as any improvement in his ailment goes. I should be much obliged if you would ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me. It is my last reception, and one wants something that will encourage conversation, particularly at the end of the season when every one has practically said whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.

      Algernon. I’ll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still conscious, and I think I can promise you he’ll be all right by Saturday. Of course the music is a great difficulty. You see, if one plays good music, people don’t listen, and if one plays bad music people don’t talk. But I’ll run over the programme I’ve drawn out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment.

      Lady Bracknell. Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you. [Rising, and following Algernon.] I’m sure the programme will be delightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot possibly allow. People always seem to think that they are improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. But German sounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, I believe is so. Gwendolen, you will accompany me.

      Gwendolen. Certainly, mamma.

      [Lady Bracknell and Algernon go into the music-room, Gwendolen remains behind.]

      Jack. Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax.

      Gwendolen. Pray don’t talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain that they mean something else. And that makes me so nervous.

      Jack. I do mean something else.

      Gwendolen. I thought so. In fact, I am never wrong.

      Jack. And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Lady Bracknell’s temporary absence …

      Gwendolen. I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to her about.

      Jack. [Nervously.] Miss Fairfax, ever since I met you I have admired you more than any girl … I have ever met since … I met you.

      Gwendolen. Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact. And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you have always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far from indifferent to you. [Jack looks at her in amazement.] We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits, I am told; and my ideal has always been to love some one of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love you.

      Jack. You really love me, Gwendolen?

      Gwendolen. Passionately!

      Jack. Darling! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.

      Gwendolen. My own Ernest!

      Jack. But you don’t really mean to say that you couldn’t love me if my name wasn’t Ernest?

      Gwendolen. But your name is Ernest.

      Jack. Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to say you couldn’t love me then?

      Gwendolen. [Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.

      Jack. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don’t much care about the name of Ernest … I don’t think the name suits me at all.

      Gwendolen. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. It produces vibrations.

      Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.

      Gwendolen. Jack? … No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations … I have known several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment’s solitude. The only really

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