Garden at the Manor House. A flight of grey stone steps leads up
to the house. The garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses.
Time of year, July. Basket chairs, and a table covered with books,
are set under a large yew-tree.
[MISS PRISM discovered seated at the table. CECILY is at the back
MISS PRISM [Calling.] Cecily, Cecily! Surely such a utilitarian
occupation as the watering of flowers is rather Moulton's duty than
yours? Especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures await
you. Your German grammar is on the table. Pray open it at page
fifteen. We will repeat yesterday's lesson.
CECILY [Coming over very slowly.] But I don't like German. It
isn't at all a becoming language. I know perfectly well that I
look quite plain after my German lesson.
Child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you
should improve yourself in every way. He laid particular stress on
your German, as he was leaving for town yesterday. Indeed, he
always lays stress on your German when he is leaving for town.
Dear Uncle Jack is so very serious! Sometimes he is so
serious that I think he cannot be quite well
MISS PRISM [Drawing herself up.] Your guardian enjoys the best
of health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be
commanded in one so comparatively young as he is. I know no one
who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility.
I suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when
we three are together.
Cecily! I am surprised at you. Mr. Worthing has many
troubles in his life. Idle merriment and triviality would be out
of place in his conversation. You must remember his constant
anxiety about that unfortunate young man his brother.
I wish Uncle Jack would allow that unfortunate young man,
his brother, to come down here sometimes. We might have a good
influence over him, Miss Prism. I am sure you certainly would.
You know German, and geology, and things of that kind influence a
man very much. [CECILY begins to write in her diary.]
MISS PRISM [Shaking her head.] I do not think that even I could
produce any effect on a character that according to his own
brother's admission is irretrievably weak and vacillating. Indeed
I am not sure that I would desire to reclaim him. I am not in
favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good people
at a moment's notice. As a man sows so let him reap. You must put
away your diary, Cecily. I really don't see why you should keep a
diary at all.
I keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of
my life. If I didn't write them down, I should probably forget all
Memory, my dear Cecily, is the diary that we all carry
about with us.
Yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never
happened, and couldn't possibly have happened. I believe that
Memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that
Mudie sends us.
Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel,
Cecily. I wrote one myself in earlier days.
Did you really, Miss Prism? How wonderfully clever you
are! I hope it did not end happily? I don't like novels that end
happily. They depress me so much.
The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That
is what Fiction means.
I suppose so. But it seems very unfair. And was your
novel ever published?
Alas! no. The manuscript unfortunately was abandoned.
[CECILY starts.] I use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid.
To your work, child, these speculations are profitless.
CECILY [Smiling.] But I see dear Dr. Chasuble coming up through
MISS PRISM [Rising and advancing.] Dr. Chasuble! This is indeed
That is strange. Were I fortunate enough to be Miss
Prism's pupil, I would hang upon her lips. [MISS PRISM glares.] I
spoke metaphorically. - My metaphor was drawn from bees. Ahem!
Mr. Worthing, I suppose, has not returned from town yet?
We do not expect him till Monday afternoon.
Ah yes, he usually likes to spend his Sunday in London.
He is not one of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all
accounts, that unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. But
I must not disturb Egeria and her pupil any longer.
CHASUBLE [Bowing.] A classical allusion merely, drawn from the
Pagan authors. I shall see you both no doubt at Evensong?
I think, dear Doctor, I will have a stroll with you.
I find I have a headache after all, and a walk might do it good.
With pleasure, Miss Prism, with pleasure. We might go
as far as the schools and back.
That would be delightful. Cecily, you will read your
Political Economy in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the
Rupee you may omit. It is somewhat too sensational. Even these
metallic problems have their melodramatic side.
I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel
rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one
[Enter ALGERNON, very gay and debonnair.] He does!
ALGERNON [Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I'm
You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In
fact, I believe I am more than usually tall for my age. [ALGERNON
is rather taken aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see
from your card, are Uncle Jack's brother, my cousin Ernest, my
wicked cousin Ernest.
Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You
mustn't think that I am wicked.
If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us
all in a very inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading
a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all
the time. That would be hypocrisy.
ALGERNON [Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been
Well, I know, of course, how important it is not to keep a
business engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty
of life, but still I think you had better wait till Uncle Jack
arrives. I know he wants to speak to you about your emigrating.
Because you are like a pink rose, Cousin Cecily.
I don't think it can be right for you to talk to me like
that. Miss Prism never says such things to me.
Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady. [CECILY
puts the rose in his buttonhole.] You are the prettiest girl I
Miss Prism says that all good looks are a snare.
They are a snare that every sensible man would like to
be caught in.
Oh, I don't think I would care to catch a sensible man. I
shouldn't know what to talk to him about.
[They pass into the house. MISS PRISM and DR. CHASUBLE return.]
You are too much alone, dear Dr. Chasuble. You should
get married. A misanthrope I can understand - a womanthrope,
CHASUBLE [With a scholar's shudder.] Believe me, I do not
deserve so neologistic a phrase. The precept as well as the
practice of the Primitive Church was distinctly against matrimony.
MISS PRISM [Sententiously.] That is obviously the reason why the
Primitive Church has not lasted up to the present day. And you do
not seem to realise, dear Doctor, that by persistently remaining
single, a man converts himself into a permanent public temptation.
Men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weaker vessels
But is a man not equally attractive when married?
No married man is ever attractive except to his wife.
And often, I've been told, not even to her.
That depends on the intellectual sympathies of the
woman. Maturity can always be depended on. Ripeness can be
trusted. Young women are green. [DR. CHASUBLE starts.] I spoke
horticulturally. My metaphor was drawn from fruits. But where is
CHASUBLE [Raising his hand.] Charity, dear Miss Prism, charity!
None of us are perfect. I myself am peculiarly susceptible to
draughts. Will the interment take place here?
No. He seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in
In Paris! [Shakes his head.] I fear that hardly points
to any very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt
wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic
affliction next Sunday. [JACK presses his hand convulsively.] My
sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted
to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case,
distressing. [All sigh.] I have preached it at harvest
celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation
and festal days. The last time I delivered it was in the
Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the Society for the
Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders. The Bishop, who
was present, was much struck by some of the analogies I drew.
Ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr.
Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? [DR.
CHASUBLE looks astounded.] I mean, of course, you are continually
christening, aren't you?
It is, I regret to say, one of the Rector's most
constant duties in this parish. I have often spoken to the poorer
classes on the subject. But they don't seem to know what thrift
But is there any particular infant in whom you are
interested, Mr. Worthing? Your brother was, I believe, unmarried,
was he not?
You need have no apprehensions. Sprinkling is all that
is necessary, or indeed I think advisable. Our weather is so
changeable. At what hour would you wish the ceremony performed?
Oh, I might trot round about five if that would suit you.
Perfectly, perfectly! In fact I have two similar
ceremonies to perform at that time. A case of twins that occurred
recently in one of the outlying cottages on your own estate. Poor
Jenkins the carter, a most hard-working man.
Oh! I don't see much fun in being christened along with
other babies. It would be childish. Would half-past five do?
Admirably! Admirably! [Takes out watch.] And now,
dear Mr. Worthing, I will not intrude any longer into a house of
sorrow. I would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by
grief. What seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in
This seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious
Oh, don't say that. However badly he may have behaved to
you in the past he is still your brother. You couldn't be so
heartless as to disown him. I'll tell him to come out. And you
will shake hands with him, won't you, Uncle Jack? [Runs back into
Brother John, I have come down from town to tell you
that I am very sorry for all the trouble I have given you, and that
I intend to lead a better life in the future. [JACK glares at him
and does not take his hand.]
Uncle Jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother's
Nothing will induce me to take his hand. I think his coming
down here disgraceful. He knows perfectly well why.
Uncle Jack, do be nice. There is some good in every one.
Ernest has just been telling me about his poor invalid friend Mr.
Bunbury whom he goes to visit so often. And surely there must be
much good in one who is kind to an invalid, and leaves the
pleasures of London to sit by a bed of pain.
Oh! he has been talking about Bunbury, has he?
Yes, he has told me all about poor Mr. Bunbury, and his
terrible state of health.
Bunbury! Well, I won't have him talk to you about Bunbury
or about anything else. It is enough to drive one perfectly
Of course I admit that the faults were all on my side.
But I must say that I think that Brother John's coldness to me is
peculiarly painful. I expected a more enthusiastic welcome,
especially considering it is the first time I have come here.
Uncle Jack, if you don't shake hands with Ernest I will
never forgive you.
You are not to talk of Miss Cardew like that. I don't like
Well, I don't like your clothes. You look perfectly
ridiculous in them. Why on earth don't you go up and change? It
is perfectly childish to be in deep mourning for a man who is
actually staying for a whole week with you in your house as a
guest. I call it grotesque.
You are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a
guest or anything else. You have got to leave . . . by the four-
I certainly won't leave you so long as you are in
mourning. It would be most unfriendly. If I were in mourning you
would stay with me, I suppose. I should think it very unkind if
Yes, if you are not too long. I never saw anybody take
so long to dress, and with such little result.
Well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-
dressed as you are.
If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up
for it by being always immensely over-educated.
Your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your
presence in my garden utterly absurd. However, you have got to
catch the four-five, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey
back to town. This Bunburying, as you call it, has not been a
great success for you.
I am afraid so. It's a very painful parting.
It is always painful to part from people whom one has
known for a very brief space of time. The absence of old friends
one can endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation
from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost
I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite
frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the
visible personification of absolute perfection.
I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If
you will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary. [Goes
over to table and begins writing in diary.]
Do you really keep a diary? I'd give anything to look
at it. May I?
Oh no. [Puts her hand over it.] You see, it is simply a
very young girl's record of her own thoughts and impressions, and
consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume form
I hope you will order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don't stop. I
delight in taking down from dictation. I have reached 'absolute
perfection'. You can go on. I am quite ready for more.
Well, ever since dear Uncle Jack first confessed to us
that he had a younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of
course have formed the chief topic of conversation between myself
and Miss Prism. And of course a man who is much talked about is
always very attractive. One feels there must be something in him,
after all. I daresay it was foolish of me, but I fell in love with
Darling! And when was the engagement actually settled?
On the 14th of February last. Worn out by your entire
ignorance of my existence, I determined to end the matter one way
or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I accepted you
under this dear old tree here. The next day I bought this little
ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true
lover's knot I promised you always to wear.
Did I give you this? It's very pretty, isn't it?
Yes, you've wonderfully good taste, Ernest. It's the
excuse I've always given for your leading such a bad life. And
this is the box in which I keep all your dear letters. [Kneels at
table, opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.]
My letters! But, my own sweet Cecily, I have never
written you any letters.
You need hardly remind me of that, Ernest. I remember
only too well that I was forced to write your letters for you. I
wrote always three times a week, and sometimes oftener.
Oh, I couldn't possibly. They would make you far too
conceited. [Replaces box.] The three you wrote me after I had
broken of the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled,
that even now I can hardly read them without crying a little.
Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see
the entry if you like. [Shows diary.] 'To-day I broke off my
engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather
still continues charming.'
But why on earth did you break it of? What had I done?
I had done nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to
hear you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was so
It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if
it hadn't been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before
the week was out.
ALGERNON [Crossing to her, and kneeling.] What a perfect angel
you are, Cecily.
You dear romantic boy. [He kisses her, she puts her
fingers through his hair.] I hope your hair curls naturally, does
Yes, darling, with a little help from others.
You must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been
a girlish dream of mine to love some one whose name was Ernest.
[ALGERNON rises, CECILY also.] There is something in that name
that seems to inspire absolute confidence. I pity any poor married
woman whose husband is not called Ernest.
But, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not
love me if I had some other name?
Well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, I
really can't see why you should object to the name of Algernon. It
is not at all a bad name. In fact, it is rather an aristocratic
name. Half of the chaps who get into the Bankruptcy Court are
called Algernon. But seriously, Cecily . . . [Moving to her] . . .
if my name was Algy, couldn't you love me?
CECILY [Rising.] I might respect you, Ernest, I might admire
your character, but I fear that I should not be able to give you my
Ahem! Cecily! [Picking up hat.] Your Rector here is,
I suppose, thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites
and ceremonials of the Church?
Oh, yes. Dr. Chasuble is a most learned man. He has
never written a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows.
I must see him at once on a most important christening -
I mean on most important business.
Considering that we have been engaged since February the
14th, and that I only met you to-day for the first time, I think it
is rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as
half an hour. Couldn't you make it twenty minutes?
Miss Fairfax! I suppose one of the many good elderly
women who are associated with Uncle Jack in some of his
philanthropic work in London. I don't quite like women who are
interested in philanthropic work. I think it is so forward of
CECILY [Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to
you. My name is Cecily Cardew.
Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.]
What a very sweet name! Something tells me that we are going to be
great friends. I like you already more than I can say. My first
impressions of people are never wrong.
How nice of you to like me so much after we have known
each other such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.
GWENDOLEN [Still standing up.] I may call you Cecily, may I not?
Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is
entirely unknown. I think that is quite as it should be. The home
seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. And certainly
once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes
painfully effeminate, does he not? And I don't like that. It
makes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose views on
education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely
short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking
at you through my glasses?
Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked
GWENDOLEN [After examining CECILY carefully through a lorgnette.]
You are here on a short visit, I suppose.
Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had
a ward. How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly.
I am not sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of
unmixed delight. [Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of
you, Cecily; I have liked you ever since I met you! But I am bound
to state that now that I know that you are Mr. Worthing's ward, I
cannot help expressing a wish you were - well, just a little older
than you seem to be - and not quite so very alluring in appearance.
In fact, if I may speak candidly -
Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything
unpleasant to say, one should always be quite candid.
Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish
that you were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your
age. Ernest has a strong upright nature. He is the very soul of
truth and honour. Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as
deception. But even men of the noblest possible moral character
are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms
of others. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us with
many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so,
indeed, History would be quite unreadable.
I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?
Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian.
It is his brother - his elder brother.
GWENDOLEN [Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me
that he had a brother.
I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a
Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I
have never heard any man mention his brother. The subject seems
distasteful to most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my
mind. I was growing almost anxious. It would have been terrible
if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it not?
Of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not Mr. Ernest
Worthing who is your guardian?
Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.
CECILY [Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is
no reason why I should make a secret of it to you. Our little
county newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr.
Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to be married.
GWENDOLEN [Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think
there must be some slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to
me. The announcement will appear in the MORNING POST on Saturday
at the latest.
CECILY [Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under
some misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago.
GWENDOLEN [Examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] It
is certainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday
afternoon at 5.30. If you would care to verify the incident, pray
do so. [Produces diary of her own.] I never travel without my
diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the
train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment to
you, but I am afraid I have the prior claim.
It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear
Gwendolen, if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I
feel bound to point out that since Ernest proposed to you he
clearly has changed his mind.
GWENDOLEN [Meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped
into any foolish promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him
at once, and with a firm hand.
CECILY [Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate
entanglement my dear boy may have got into, I will never reproach
him with it after we are married.
Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement?
You are presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more
than a moral duty to speak one's mind. It becomes a pleasure.
Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into
an engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the
shallow mask of manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.
GWENDOLEN [Satirically.] I am glad to say that I have never seen
a spade. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely
[Enter MERRIMAN, followed by the footman. He carries a salver,
table cloth, and plate stand. CECILY is about to retort. The
presence of the servants exercises a restraining influence, under
which both girls chafe.]
I had no idea there were any flowers in the country.
Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people
are in London.
Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to
exist in the country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country
always bores me to death.
Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural
depression, is it not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering
very much from it just at present. It is almost an epidemic
amongst them, I have been told. May I offer you some tea, Miss
GWENDOLEN [With elaborate politeness.] Thank you. [Aside.]
Detestable girl! But I require tea!
GWENDOLEN [In a bored manner.] Bread and butter, please. Cake
is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays.
CECILY [Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the
tray.] Hand that to Miss Fairfax.
[MERRIMAN does so, and goes out with footman. GWENDOLEN drinks the
tea and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her
hand to the bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake.
Rises in indignation.]
You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though
I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me
cake. I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the
extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew,
you may go too far.
CECILY [Rising.] To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from
the machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which I
would not go.
From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt
that you were false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such
matters. My first impressions of people are invariably right.
It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on
your valuable time. No doubt you have many other calls of a
similar character to make in the neighbourhood.
GWENDOLEN [Slowly and seriously.] You will call me sister, will
you not? [They embrace. JACK and ALGERNON groan and walk up and
CECILY [Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would
like to be allowed to ask my guardian.
An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one
question I would like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your
brother Ernest? We are both engaged to be married to your brother
Ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know where
your brother Ernest is at present.
JACK [Slowly and hesitatingly.] Gwendolen - Cecily - it is very
painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first
time in my life that I have ever been reduced to such a painful
position, and I am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of
the kind. However, I will tell you quite frankly that I have no
brother Ernest. I have no brother at all. I never had a brother
in my life, and I certainly have not the smallest intention of ever
having one in the future.
Well, one must be serious about something, if one wants
to have any amusement in life. I happen to be serious about
Bunburying. What on earth you are serious about I haven't got the
remotest idea. About everything, I should fancy. You have such an
absolutely trivial nature.
Well, the only small satisfaction I have in the whole of
this wretched business is that your friend Bunbury is quite
exploded. You won't be able to run down to the country quite so
often as you used to do, dear Algy. And a very good thing too.
Your brother is a little off colour, isn't he, dear
Jack? You won't be able to disappear to London quite so frequently
as your wicked custom was. And not a bad thing either.
As for your conduct towards Miss Cardew, I must say that
your taking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite
inexcusable. To say nothing of the fact that she is my ward.
I can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving
a brilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like Miss
Fairfax. To say nothing of the fact that she is my cousin.
I wanted to be engaged to Gwendolen, that is all. I love
Well, I simply wanted to be engaged to Cecily. I adore
There is certainly no chance of your marrying Miss Cardew.
I don't think there is much likelihood, Jack, of you and
Miss Fairfax being united.
If it was my business, I wouldn't talk about it.
[Begins to eat muffins.] It is very vulgar to talk about one's
business. Only people like stock-brokers do that, and then merely
at dinner parties.
How can you sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in
this horrible trouble, I can't make out. You seem to me to be
Well, I can't eat muffins in an agitated manner. The
butter would probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat
muffins quite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.
I say it's perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all,
under the circumstances.
When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that
consoles me. Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as any one
who knows me intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except
food and drink. At the present moment I am eating muffins because
I am unhappy. Besides, I am particularly fond of muffins.
JACK [Rising.] Well, that is no reason why you should eat them
all in that greedy way. [Takes muffins from ALGERNON.]
ALGERNON [Offering tea-cake.] I wish you would have tea-cake
instead. I don't like tea-cake.
Good heavens! I suppose a man may eat his own muffins in
his own garden.
But you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat
I said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the
circumstances. That is a very different thing.
That may be. But the muffins are the same. [He seizes
the muffin-dish from JACK.]
You can't possibly ask me to go without having some
dinner. It's absurd. I never go without my dinner. No one ever
does, except vegetarians and people like that. Besides I have just
made arrangements with Dr. Chasuble to be christened at a quarter
to six under the name of Ernest.
My dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the
better. I made arrangements this morning with Dr. Chasuble to be
christened myself at 5.30, and I naturally will take the name of
Ernest. Gwendolen would wish it. We can't both be christened
Ernest. It's absurd. Besides, I have a perfect right to be
christened if I like. There is no evidence at all that I have ever
been christened by anybody. I should think it extremely probable I
never was, and so does Dr. Chasuble. It is entirely different in
your case. You have been christened already.
Yes, but I have not been christened for years.
Yes, but you have been christened. That is the important
Quite so. So I know my constitution can stand it. If
you are not quite sure about your ever having been christened, I
must say I think it rather dangerous your venturing on it now. It
might make you very unwell. You can hardly have forgotten that
some one very closely connected with you was very nearly carried
off this week in Paris by a severe chill.
Yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not
It usen't to be, I know - but I daresay it is now.
Science is always making wonderful improvements in things.
JACK [Picking up the muffin-dish.] Oh, that is nonsense; you are
always talking nonsense.
Jack, you are at the muffins again! I wish you
wouldn't. There are only two left. [Takes them.] I told you I
was particularly fond of muffins.