THIRD ACT



SCENE

The Library in Lord Goring's house. An Adam room. On the right is
the door leading into the hall. On the left, the door of the
smoking-room. A pair of folding doors at the back open into the
drawing-room. The fire is lit. Phipps, the butler, is arranging
some newspapers on the writing-table. The distinction of Phipps is
his impassivity. He has been termed by enthusiasts the Ideal Butler.
The Sphinx is not so incommunicable. He is a mask with a manner. Of
his intellectual or emotional life, history knows nothing. He
represents the dominance of form.

[Enter LORD GORING in evening dress with a buttonhole. He is wearing
a silk hat and Inverness cape. White-gloved, he carries a Louis
Seize cane. His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion. One sees
that he stands in immediate relation to modern life, makes it indeed,
and so masters it. He is the first well-dressed philosopher in the
history of thought.]

LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps?

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [Takes his hat, cane, and cape, and presents
new buttonhole on salver.]

LORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only
person of the smallest importance in London at present who wears a
buttonhole.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that,

LORD GORING. [Taking out old buttonhole.] You see, Phipps, Fashion
is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other
people wear.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other
people.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. [Putting in a new buttonhole.] And falsehoods the
truths of other people.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible
society is oneself.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance,
Phipps.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. [Looking at himself in the glass.] Don't think I quite
like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes
me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?

PHIPPS. I don't observe any alteration in your lordship's
appearance.

LORD GORING. You don't, Phipps?

PHIPPS. No, my lord.

LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial
buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings.

PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in
her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality
your lordship complains of in the buttonhole.

LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England
- they are always losing their relations.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect.

LORD GORING. [Turns round and looks at him. PHIPPS remains
impassive.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps?

PHIPPS. Three, my lord. [Hands letters on a salver.]

LORD GORING. [Takes letters.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [Goes towards door.]

LORD GORING. [Holds up letter in pink envelope.] Ahem! Phipps,
when did this letter arrive?

PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the
club.

LORD GORING. That will do. [Exit PHIPPS.] Lady Chiltern's
handwriting on Lady Chiltern's pink notepaper. That is rather
curious. I thought Robert was to write. Wonder what Lady Chiltern
has got to say to me? [Sits at bureau and opens letter, and reads
it.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.'
[Puts down the letter with a puzzled look. Then takes it up, and
reads it again slowly.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming to
you.' So she has found out everything! Poor woman! Poor woman! [
Pulls out watch and looks at it.] But what an hour to call! Ten
o'clock! I shall have to give up going to the Berkshires. However,
it is always nice to be expected, and not to arrive. I am not
expected at the Bachelors', so I shall certainly go there. Well, I
will make her stand by her husband. That is the only thing for her
to do. That is the only thing for any woman to do. It is the growth
of the moral sense in women that makes marriage such a hopeless, one-
sided institution. Ten o'clock. She should be here soon. I must
tell Phipps I am not in to any one else. [Goes towards bell]

[Enter PHIPPS.]

PHIPPS. Lord Caversham.

LORD GORING. Oh, why will parents always appear at the wrong time?
Some extraordinary mistake in nature, I suppose. [Enter LORD
CAVERSHAM.] Delighted to see you, my dear father. [Goes to meet
him.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Take my cloak off.

LORD GORING. Is it worth while, father?

LORD CAVERSHAM. Of course it is worth while, sir. Which is the most
comfortable chair?

LORD GORING. This one, father. It is the chair I use myself, when I
have visitors.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Thank ye. No draught, I hope, in this room?

LORD GORING. No, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. [Sitting down.] Glad to hear it. Can't stand
draughts. No draughts at home.

LORD GORING. Good many breezes, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Eh? Eh? Don't understand what you mean. Want to
have a serious conversation with you, sir.

LORD GORING. My dear father! At this hour?

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, it is only ten o'clock. What is your
objection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour!

LORD GORING. Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for
talking seriously. I am very sorry, but it is not my day.

LORD CAVERSHAM. What do you mean, sir?

LORD GORING. During the Season, father, I only talk seriously on the
first Tuesday in every month, from four to seven.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, make it Tuesday, sir, make it Tuesday.

LORD GORING. But it is after seven, father, and my doctor says I
must not have any serious conversation after seven. It makes me talk
in my sleep.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Talk in your sleep, sir? What does that matter?
You are not married.

LORD GORING. No, father, I am not married.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Hum! That is what I have come to talk to you about,
sir. You have got to get married, and at once. Why, when I was your
age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and
was already paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme,
sir, it is your duty to get married. You can't be always living for
pleasure. Every man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are
not fashionable any more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known
about them. You must get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert
Chiltern has got to by probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage
with a good woman. Why don't you imitate him, sir? Why don't you
take him for your model?

LORD GORING. I think I shall, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. At
present I make your mother's life miserable on your account. You are
heartless, sir, quite heartless

LORD GORING. I hope not, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you to get married. You are
thirty-four years of age, sir.

LORD GORING. Yes, father, but I only admit to thirty-two - thirty-
one and a half when I have a really good buttonhole. This buttonhole
is not . . . trivial enough.

LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a
draught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why
did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I
feel it distinctly.

LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught. I will
come and see you to-morrow, father. We can talk over anything you
like. Let me help you on with your cloak, father.

LORD CAVERSHAM. No, sir; I have called this evening for a definite
purpose, and I am going to see it through at all costs to my health
or yours. Put down my cloak, sir.

LORD GORING. Certainly, father. But let us go into another room.
[Rings bell.] There is a dreadful draught here. [Enter PHIPPS.]
Phipps, is there a good fire in the smoking-room?

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Come in there, father. Your sneezes are quite
heartrending.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir, I suppose I have a right to sneeze when I
choose?

LORD GORING. [Apologetically.] Quite so, father. I was merely
expressing sympathy.

LORD CAVERSHAM. Oh, damn sympathy. There is a great deal too much
of that sort of thing going on nowadays.

LORD GORING. I quite agree with you, father. If there was less
sympathy in the world there would be less trouble in the world.

LORD CAVERSHAM. [Going towards the smoking-room.] That is a
paradox, sir. I hate paradoxes.

LORD GORING. So do I, father. Everybody one meets is a paradox
nowadays. It is a great bore. It makes society so obvious.

LORD CAVERSHAM. [Turning round, and looking at his son beneath his
bushy eyebrows.] Do you always really understand what you say, sir?

LORD GORING. [After some hesitation.] Yes, father, if I listen
attentively.

LORD CAVERSHAM. [Indignantly.] If you listen attentively! . . .
Conceited young puppy!

[Goes off grumbling into the smoking-room. PHIPPS enters.]

LORD GORING. Phipps, there is a lady coming to see me this evening
on particular business. Show her into the drawing-room when she
arrives. You understand?

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. It is a matter of the gravest importance, Phipps.

PHIPPS. I understand, my lord.

LORD GORING. No one else is to be admitted, under any circumstances.

PHIPPS. I understand, my lord. [Bell rings.]

LORD GORING. Ah! that is probably the lady. I shall see her myself.

[Just as he is going towards the door LORD CAVERSHAM enters from the
smoking-room.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Well, sir? am I to wait attendance on you?

LORD GORING. [Considerably perplexed.] In a moment, father. Do
excuse me. [LORD CAVERSHAM goes back.] Well, remember my
instructions, Phipps - into that room.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

[LORD GORING goes into the smoking-room. HAROLD, the footman shows
MRS. CHEVELEY in. Lamia-like, she is in green and silver. She has
a cloak of black satin, lined with dead rose-leaf silk.]

HAROLD. What name, madam?

MRS. CHEVELEY. [To PHIPPS, who advances towards her.] Is Lord
Goring not here? I was told he was at home?

PHIPPS. His lordship is engaged at present with Lord Caversham,
madam.

[Turns a cold, glassy eye on HAROLD, who at once retires.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. [To herself.] How very filial!

PHIPPS. His lordship told me to ask you, madam, to be kind enough to
wait in the drawing-room for him. His lordship will come to you
there.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [With a look of surprise.] Lord Goring expects me?

PHIPPS. Yes, madam.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Are you quite sure?

PHIPPS. His lordship told me that if a lady called I was to ask her
to wait in the drawing-room. [Goes to the door of the drawing-room
and opens it.] His lordship's directions on the subject were very
precise.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [To herself] How thoughtful of him! To expect the
unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. [Goes towards the
drawing-room and looks in.] Ugh! How dreary a bachelor's drawing-
room always looks. I shall have to alter all this. [PHIPPS brings
the lamp from the writing-table.] No, I don't care for that lamp.
It is far too glaring. Light some candles.

PHIPPS. [Replaces lamp.] Certainly, madam.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I hope the candles have very becoming shades.

PHIPPS. We have had no complaints about them, madam, as yet.

[Passes into the drawing-room and begins to light the candles.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. [To herself.] I wonder what woman he is waiting for
to-night. It will be delightful to catch him. Men always look so
silly when they are caught. And they are always being caught.
[Looks about room and approaches the writing-table.] What a very
interesting room! What a very interesting picture! Wonder what his
correspondence is like. [Takes up letters.] Oh, what a very
uninteresting correspondence! Bills and cards, debts and dowagers!
Who on earth writes to him on pink paper? How silly to write on pink
paper! It looks like the beginning of a middle-class romance.
Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with
science and end with a settlement. [Puts letter down, then takes it
up again.] I know that handwriting. That is Gertrude Chiltern's. I
remember it perfectly. The ten commandments in every stroke of the
pen, and the moral law all over the page. Wonder what Gertrude is
writing to him about? Something horrid about me, I suppose. How I
detest that woman! [Reads it.] 'I trust you. I want you. I am
coming to you. Gertrude.' 'I trust you. I want you. I am coming
to you.'

[A look of triumph comes over her face. She is just about to steal
the letter, when PHIPPS comes in.]

PHIPPS. The candles in the drawing-room are lit, madam, as you
directed.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. [Rises hastily and slips the letter under
a large silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table.]

PHIPPS. I trust the shades will be to your liking, madam. They are
the most becoming we have. They are the same as his lordship uses
himself when he is dressing for dinner.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [With a smile.] Then I am sure they will be
perfectly right.

PHIPPS. [Gravely.] Thank you, madam.

[MRS. CHEVELEY goes into the drawing-room. PHIPPS closes the door
and retires. The door is then slowly opened, and MRS. CHEVELEY comes
out and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table. Suddenly voices
are heard from the smoking-room. MRS. CHEVELEY grows pale, and
stops. The voices grow louder, and she goes back into the drawing-
room, biting her lip.]

[Enter LORD GORING and LORD CAVERSHAM.]

LORD GORING. [Expostulating.] My dear father, if I am to get
married, surely you will allow me to choose the time, place, and
person? Particularly the person.

LORD CAVERSHAM. [Testily.] That is a matter for me, sir. You would
probably make a very poor choice. It is I who should be consulted,
not you. There is property at stake. It is not a matter for
affection. Affection comes later on in married life.

LORD GORING. Yes. In married life affection comes when people
thoroughly dislike each other, father, doesn't it? [Puts on LORD
CAVERSHAM'S cloak for him.]

LORD CAVERSHAM. Certainly, sir. I mean certainly not, air. You are
talking very foolishly to-night. What I say is that marriage is a
matter for common sense.

LORD GORING. But women who have common sense are so curiously plain,
father, aren't they? Of course I only speak from hearsay.

LORD CAVERSHAM. No woman, plain or pretty, has any common sense at
all, sir. Common sense is the privilege of our sex.

LORD GORING. Quite so. And we men are so self-sacrificing that we
never use it, do we, father?

LORD CAVERSHAM. I use it, sir. I use nothing else.

LORD GORING. So my mother tells me.

LORD CAVERSHAM. It is the secret of your mother's happiness. You
are very heartless, sir, very heartless.

LORD GORING. I hope not, father.

[Goes out for a moment. Then returns, looking rather put out, with
SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My dear Arthur, what a piece of good luck
meeting you on the doorstep! Your servant had just told me you were
not at home. How extraordinary!

LORD GORING. The fact is, I am horribly busy to-night, Robert, and I
gave orders I was not at home to any one. Even my father had a
comparatively cold reception. He complained of a draught the whole
time.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah! you must be at home to me, Arthur. You are
my best friend. Perhaps by to-morrow you will be my only friend. My
wife has discovered everything.

LORD GORING. Ah! I guessed as much!

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Looking at him.] Really! How?

LORD GORING. [After some hesitation.] Oh, merely by something in
the expression of your face as you came in. Who told her?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Mrs. Cheveley herself. And the woman I love
knows that I began my career with an act of low dishonesty, that I
built up my life upon sands of shame - that I sold, like a common
huckster, the secret that had been intrusted to me as a man of
honour. I thank heaven poor Lord Radley died without knowing that I
betrayed him. I would to God I had died before I had been so
horribly tempted, or had fallen so low. [Burying his face in his
hands.]

LORD GORING. [After a pause.] You have heard nothing from Vienna
yet, in answer to your wire?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Looking up.] Yes; I got a telegram from the
first secretary at eight o'clock to-night.

LORD GORING. Well?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Nothing is absolutely known against her. On
the contrary, she occupies a rather high position in society. It is
a sort of open secret that Baron Arnheim left her the greater portion
of his immense fortune. Beyond that I can learn nothing.

LORD GORING. She doesn't turn out to be a spy, then?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Oh! spies are of no use nowadays. Their
profession is over. The newspapers do their work instead.

LORD GORING. And thunderingly well they do it.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, I am parched with thirst. May I ring
for something? Some hock and seltzer?

LORD GORING. Certainly. Let me. [Rings the bell.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thanks! I don't know what to do, Arthur, I
don't know what to do, and you are my only friend. But what a friend
you are - the one friend I can trust. I can trust you absolutely,
can't I?

[Enter PHIPPS.]

LORD GORING. My dear Robert, of course. Oh! [To PHIPPS.] Bring
some hock and seltzer.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. And Phipps!

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord.

LORD GORING. Will you excuse me for a moment, Robert? I want to
give some directions to my servant.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Certainly.

LORD GORING. When that lady calls, tell her that I am not expected
home this evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly called out of
town. You understand?

PHIPPS. The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show her
into that room, my lord.

LORD GORING. You did perfectly right. [Exit PHIPPS.] What a mess I
am in. No; I think I shall get through it. I'll give her a lecture
through the door. Awkward thing to manage, though.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, tell me what I should do. My life
seems to have crumbled about me. I am a ship without a rudder in a
night without a star.

LORD GORING. Robert, you love your wife, don't you?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I love her more than anything in the world. I
used to think ambition the great thing. It is not. Love is the
great thing in the world. There is nothing but love, and I love her.
But I am defamed in her eyes. I am ignoble in her eyes. There is a
wide gulf between us now. She has found me out, Arthur, she has
found me out.

LORD GORING. Has she never in her life done some folly - some
indiscretion - that she should not forgive your sin?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. My wife! Never! She does not know what
weakness or temptation is. I am of clay like other men. She stands
apart as good women do - pitiless in her perfection - cold and stern
and without mercy. But I love her, Arthur. We are childless, and I
have no one else to love, no one else to love me. Perhaps if God had
sent us children she might have been kinder to me. But God has given
us a lonely house. And she has cut my heart in two. Don't let us
talk of it. I was brutal to her this evening. But I suppose when
sinners talk to saints they are brutal always. I said to her things
that were hideously true, on my side, from my stand-point, from the
standpoint of men. But don't let us talk of that

LORD GORING. Your wife will forgive you. Perhaps at this moment she
is forgiving you. She loves you, Robert. Why should she not
forgive?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. God grant it! God grant it! [Buries his face
in his hands.] But there is something more I have to tell you,
Arthur.

[Enter PHIPPS with drinks.]

PHIPPS. [Hands hock and seltzer to SIR ROBERT CHILTERN.] Hock and
seltzer, sir.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Thank you.

LORD GORING. Is your carriage here, Robert?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. No; I walked from the club.

LORD GORING. Sir Robert will take my cab, Phipps.

PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [Exit.]

LORD GORING. Robert, you don't mind my sending you away?

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Arthur, you must let me stay for five minutes.
I have made up my mind what I am going to do to-night in the House.
The debate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven. [A chair
falls in the drawing-room.] What is that?

LORD GORING. Nothing.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. I heard a chair fall in the next room. Some
one has been listening.

LORD GORING. No, no; there is no one there.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. There is some one. There are lights in the
room, and the door is ajar. Some one has been listening to every
secret of my life. Arthur, what does this mean?

LORD GORING. Robert, you are excited, unnerved. I tell you there is
no one in that room. Sit down, Robert.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Do you give me your word that there is no one
there?

LORD GORING. Yes.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Your word of honour? [Sits down.]

LORD GORING. Yes.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Rises.] Arthur, let me see for myself.

LORD GORING. No, no.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. If there is no one there why should I not look
in that room? Arthur, you must let me go into that room and satisfy
myself. Let me know that no eavesdropper has heard my life's secret.
Arthur, you don't realise what I am going through.

LORD GORING. Robert, this must stop. I have told you that there is
no one in that room - that is enough.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. [Rushes to the door of the room.] It is not
enough. I insist on going into this room. You have told me there is
no one there, so what reason can you have for refusing me?

LORD GORING. For God's sake, don't! There is some one there. Some
one whom you must not see.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Ah, I thought so!

LORD GORING. I forbid you to enter that room.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Stand back. My life is at stake. And I don't
care who is there. I will know who it is to whom I have told my
secret and my shame. [Enters room.]

LORD GORING. Great heavens! his own wife!

[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN comes back, with a look of scorn and anger on
his face.]

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. What explanation have you to give me for the
presence of that woman here?

LORD GORING. Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady is
stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. She is a vile, an infamous thing!

LORD GORING. Don't say that, Robert! It was for your sake she came
here. It was to try and save you she came here. She loves you and
no one else.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. You are mad. What have I to do with her
intrigues with you? Let her remain your mistress! You are well
suited to each other. She, corrupt and shameful - you, false as a
friend, treacherous as an enemy even -

LORD GORING. It is not true, Robert. Before heaven, it is not true.
In her presence and in yours I will explain all.

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN. Let me pass, sir. You have lied enough upon
your word of honour.

[SIR ROBERT CHILTERN goes out. LORD GORING rushes to the door of the
drawing-room, when MRS. CHEVELEY comes out, looking radiant and much
amused.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. [With a mock curtsey] Good evening, Lord Goring!

LORD GORING. Mrs. Cheveley! Great heavens! . . . May I ask what you
were doing in my drawing-room?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for
listening through keyholes. One always hears such wonderful things
through them.

LORD GORING. Doesn't that sound rather like tempting Providence?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this
time. [Makes a sign to him to take her cloak off, which he does.]

LORD GORING. I am glad you have called. I am going to give you some
good advice.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh! pray don't. One should never give a woman
anything that she can't wear in the evening.

LORD GORING. I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Far more! I have greatly improved. I have had more
experience.

LORD GORING. Too much experience is a dangerous thing. Pray have a
cigarette. Half the pretty women in London smoke cigarettes.
Personally I prefer the other half.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I never smoke. My dressmaker wouldn't like
it, and a woman's first duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn't it?
What the second duty is, no one has as yet discovered.

LORD GORING. You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern's letter,
haven't you?

MRS. CHEVELEY. To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess
that?

LORD GORING. Because you haven't mentioned the subject. Have you
got it with you?

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Sitting down.] Oh, no! A well-made dress has no
pockets.

LORD GORING. What is your price for it?

MRS. CHEVELEY. How absurdly English you are! The English think that
a cheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur,
I have very much more money than you have, and quite as much as
Robert Chiltern has got hold of. Money is not what I want.

LORD GORING. What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Why don't you call me Laura?

LORD GORING. I don't like the name.

MRS. CHEVELEY. You used to adore it.

LORD GORING. Yes: that's why. [MRS. CHEVELEY motions to him to sit
down beside her. He smiles, and does so.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you loved me once.

LORD GORING. Yes.

MRS. CHEVELEY. And you asked me to be your wife.

LORD GORING. That was the natural result of my loving you.

MRS. CHEVELEY. And you threw me over because you saw, or said you
saw, poor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with
me in the conservatory at Tenby.

LORD GORING. I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that
matter with you on certain terms . . . dictated by yourself.

MRS. CHEVELEY. At that time I was poor; you were rich.

LORD GORING. Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Poor old Lord Mortlake,
who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I
never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He
used the most horrible language about them both. Well, you were
silly, Arthur. Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me
than an amusement. One of those utterly tedious amusements one only
finds at an English country house on an English country Sunday. I
don't think any one at all morally responsible for what he or she
does at an English country house.

LORD GORING. Yes. I know lots of people think that.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I loved you, Arthur.

LORD GORING. My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too
clever to know anything about love.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I did love you. And you loved me. You know you
loved me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a
man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except
continue to love her? [Puts her hand on his.]

LORD GORING. [Taking his hand away quietly.] Yes: except that.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [After a pause.] I am tired of living abroad. I
want to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here.
I want to have a salon. If one could only teach the English how to
talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite
civilised. Besides, I have arrived at the romantic stage. When I
saw you last night at the Chilterns', I knew you were the only person
I had ever cared for, if I ever have cared for anybody, Arthur. And
so, on the morning of the day you marry me, I will give you Robert
Chiltern's letter. That is my offer. I will give it to you now, if
you promise to marry me.

LORD GORING. Now?

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Smiling.] To-morrow.

LORD GORING. Are you really serious?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes, quite serious.

LORD GORING. I should make you a very bad husband.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I don't mind bad husbands. I have had two. They
amused me immensely.

LORD GORING. You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don't you?

MRS. CHEVELEY. What do you know about my married life?

LORD GORING. Nothing: but I can read it like a book.

MRS. CHEVELEY. What book?

LORD GORING. [Rising.] The Book of Numbers.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Do you think it is quite charming of you to be so
rude to a woman in your own house?

LORD GORING. In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a
challenge, not a defence.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear
Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are.
That is the difference between the two sexes.

LORD GORING. Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know
them.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [After a pause.] Then you are going to allow your
greatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry
some one who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you
would have risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I
think you should. And the rest of your life you could spend in
contemplating your own perfections.

LORD GORING. Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing
that should be put down by law. It is so demoralising to the people
for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad.

MRS. CHEVELEY. As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern! You
seem to forget that I know his real character.

LORD GORING. What you know about him is not his real character. It
was an act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit,
shameful, I admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore . . . not
his true character.

MRS. CHEVELEY. How you men stand up for each other!

LORD GORING. How you women war against each other!

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Bitterly.] I only war against one woman, against
Gertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever.

LORD GORING. Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life,
I suppose.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [With a sneer.] Oh, there is only one real tragedy
in a woman's life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and
her future invariably her husband.

LORD GORING. Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to
which you are alluding.

MRS. CHEVELEY. A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-
quarters never knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has
always worn seven and three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why
there was never any moral sympathy between us. . . . Well, Arthur, I
suppose this romantic interview may be regarded as at an end. You
admit it was romantic, don't you? For the privilege of being your
wife I was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my
diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn't
uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him. VOILE TOUT.

LORD GORING. You mustn't do that. It would be vile, horrible,
infamous.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Oh! don't use big words.
They mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all.
There is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell
Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won't pay me my price, he
will have to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be
said. I must go. Good-bye. Won't you shake hands?

LORD GORING. With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern
may pass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome
commercial age; but you seem to have forgotten that you came here to-
night to talk of love, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you
to whom the thing is a book closely sealed, went this afternoon to
the house of one of the most noble and gentle women in the world to
degrade her husband in her eyes, to try and kill her love for him, to
put poison in her heart, and bitterness in her life, to break her
idol, and, it may be, spoil her soul. That I cannot forgive you.
That was horrible. For that there can be no forgiveness.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are
quite unjust to me. I didn't go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no
idea of doing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with
Lady Markby simply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost
somewhere last night, had been found at the Chilterns'. If you don't
believe me, you can ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true.
The scene that occurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was
really forced on me by Gertrude's rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!
- a little out of malice if you like - but really to ask if a diamond
brooch of mine had been found. That was the origin of the whole
thing.

LORD GORING. A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. How do you know?

LORD GORING. Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it
myself, and stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I
was leaving. [Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the
drawers.] It is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch,
isn't it? [Holds up the brooch.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was . . a
present.

LORD GORING. Won't you wear it?

MRS. CHEVELEY. Certainly, if you pin it in. [LORD GORING suddenly
clasps it on her arm.] Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never
knew it could he worn as a bracelet.

LORD GORING. Really?

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Holding out her handsome arm.] No; but it looks
very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it?

LORD GORING. Yes; much better than when I saw it last.

MRS. CHEVELEY. When did you see it last?

LORD GORING. [Calmly.] Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from
whom you stole it.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Starting.] What do you mean?

LORD GORING. I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin,
Mary Berkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion
fell on a wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I
recognised it last night. I determined to say nothing about it till
I had found the thief. I have found the thief now, and I have heard
her own confession.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Tossing her head.] It is not true.

LORD GORING. You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your
face at this moment.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end.
I will say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was
never in my possession.

[MRS. CHEVELEY tries to get the bracelet off her arm, but fails.
LORD GORING looks on amused. Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to
no purpose. A curse breaks from her.]

LORD GORING. The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is
that one never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You
can't get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is.
And I see you don't know where the spring is. It is rather difficult
to find.

MRS. CHEVELEY. You brute! You coward! [She tries again to unclasp
the bracelet, but fails.]

LORD GORING. Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage,
with inarticulate sounds. Then stops, and looks at LORD GORING.]
What are you going to do?

LORD GORING. I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable
servant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he
comes I will tell him to fetch the police.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Trembling.] The police? What for?

LORD GORING. To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is
what the police are for.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Is now in an agony of physical terror. Her face is
distorted. Her mouth awry. A mask has fallen from her. She it, for
the moment, dreadful to look at.] Don't do that. I will do anything
you want. Anything in the world you want.

LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think.

LORD GORING. Give me Robert Chiltern's letter.

MRS. CHEVELEY. I have not got it with me. I will give it to you to-
morrow.

LORD GORING. You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. [MRS.
CHEVELEY pulls the letter out, and hands it to him. She is horribly
pale.] This is it?

MRS. CHEVELEY. [In a hoarse voice.] Yes.

LORD GORING. [Takes the letter, examines it, sighs, and burns it
with the lamp.] For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have
moments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you.

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Catches sight of LADY CHILTERN'S letter, the cover
of which is just showing from under the blotting-book.] Please get
me a glass of water.

LORD GORING. Certainly. [Goes to the corner of the room and pours
out a glass of water. While his back is turned MRS. CHEVELEY steals
LADY CHILTERN'S letter. When LORD GORING returns the glass she
refuses it with a gesture.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak?

LORD GORING. With pleasure. [Puts her cloak on.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert
Chiltern again.

LORD GORING. Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn't. On the
contrary, I am going to render him a great service.

LORD GORING. I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation.

MRS. CHEVELEY. Yes. I can't bear so upright a gentleman, so
honourable an English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so
-

LORD GORING. Well?

MRS. CHEVELEY. I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern's dying speech
and confession has strayed into my pocket.

LORD GORING. What do you mean?

MRS. CHEVELEY. [With a bitter note of triumph in her voice.] I mean
that I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love-letter his wife
wrote to you to-night.

LORD GORING. Love-letter?

MRS. CHEVELEY. [Laughing.] 'I want you. I trust you. I am coming
to you. Gertrude.'

[LORD GORING rushes to the bureau and takes up the envelope, finds is
empty, and turns round.]

LORD GORING. You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give
me back that letter. I'll take it from you by force. You shall not
leave my room till I have got it.

[He rushes towards her, but MRS. CHEVELEY at once puts her hand on
the electric bell that is on the table. The bell sounds with shrill
reverberations, and PHIPPS enters.]

MRS. CHEVELEY. [After a pause.] Lord Goring merely rang that you
should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring!

[Goes out followed by PHIPPS. Her face it illumined with evil
triumph. There is joy in her eyes. Youth seems to have come back to
her. Her last glance is like a swift arrow. LORD GORING bites his
lip, and lights his a cigarette.]

ACT DROPS