SCENE

Morning-room at the Manor House.

[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out
into the garden.]

Gwendolen. The fact that they did not follow us at once
into the house, as any one else would have done, seems to me to show
that they have some sense of shame left.

Cecily. They have been eating muffins. That looks
like repentance.

Gwendolen. [After a pause.] They don’t seem
to notice us at all. Couldn’t you cough?

Cecily. But I haven’t got a cough.

Gwendolen. They’re looking at us. What effrontery!

Cecily. They’re approaching. That’s
very forward of them.

Gwendolen. Let us preserve a dignified silence.

Cecily. Certainly. It’s the only thing to
do now. [Enter Jack followed by Algernon.
They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]

Gwendolen. This dignified silence seems to produce an
unpleasant effect.

Cecily. A most distasteful one.

Gwendolen. But we will not be the first to speak.

Cecily. Certainly not.

Gwendolen. Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular
to ask you. Much depends on your reply.

Cecily. Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable.
Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer me the following question. Why did
you pretend to be my guardian’s brother?

Algernon. In order that I might have an opportunity
of meeting you.

Cecily. [To Gwendolen.] That certainly
seems a satisfactory explanation, does it not?

Gwendolen. Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

Cecily. I don’t. But that does not affect
the wonderful beauty of his answer.

Gwendolen. True. In matters of grave importance,
style, not sincerity is the vital thing. Mr. Worthing, what explanation
can you offer to me for pretending to have a brother? Was it in
order that you might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see
me as often as possible?

Jack. Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?

Gwendolen. I have the gravest doubts upon the subject.
But I intend to crush them. This is not the moment for German
scepticism. [Moving to Cecily.] Their explanations
appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing’s.
That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.

Cecily. I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff
said. His voice alone inspires one with absolute credulity.

Gwendolen. Then you think we should forgive them?

Cecily. Yes. I mean no.

Gwendolen. True! I had forgotten. There
are principles at stake that one cannot surrender. Which of us
should tell them? The task is not a pleasant one.

Cecily. Could we not both speak at the same time?

Gwendolen. An excellent idea! I nearly always
speak at the same time as other people. Will you take the time
from me?

Cecily. Certainly. [Gwendolen beats time
with uplifted finger.]

Gwendolen and Cecily [Speaking together.] Your
Christian names are still an insuperable barrier. That is all!

Jack and Algernon [Speaking together.]
Our Christian names! Is that all? But we are going to be
christened this afternoon.

Gwendolen. [To Jack.] For my sake you are
prepared to do this terrible thing?

Jack. I am.

Cecily. [To Algernon.] To please me you
are ready to face this fearful ordeal?

Algernon. I am!

Gwendolen. How absurd to talk of the equality of the
sexes! Where questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are
infinitely beyond us.

Jack. We are. [Clasps hands with Algernon.]

Cecily. They have moments of physical courage of which
we women know absolutely nothing.

Gwendolen. [To Jack.] Darling!

Algernon. [To Cecily.] Darling! [They
fall into each other’s arms.]

[Enter Merriman. When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing
the situation.]

Merriman. Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!

Jack. Good heavens!

[Enter Lady Bracknell. The couples separate in alarm.
Exit Merriman.]

Lady Bracknell. Gwendolen! What does this mean?

Gwendolen. Merely that I am engaged to be married to
Mr. Worthing, mamma.

Lady Bracknell. Come here. Sit down. Sit
down immediately. Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay
in the young, of physical weakness in the old. [Turns to Jack.]
Apprised, sir, of my daughter’s sudden flight by her trusty maid,
whose confidence I purchased by means of a small coin, I followed her
at once by a luggage train. Her unhappy father is, I am glad to
say, under the impression that she is attending a more than usually
lengthy lecture by the University Extension Scheme on the Influence
of a permanent income on Thought. I do not propose to undeceive
him. Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question.
I would consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understand
that all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediately
from this moment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I am
firm.

Jack. I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen Lady Bracknell!

Lady Bracknell. You are nothing of the kind, sir.
And now, as regards Algernon! . . . Algernon!

Algernon. Yes, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell. May I ask if it is in this house that
your invalid friend Mr. Bunbury resides?

Algernon. [Stammering.] Oh! No! Bunbury
doesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhere else at present.
In fact, Bunbury is dead,

Lady Bracknell. Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die?
His death must have been extremely sudden.

Algernon. [Airily.] Oh! I killed Bunbury
this afternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died this afternoon.

Lady Bracknell. What did he die of?

Algernon. Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.

Lady Bracknell. Exploded! Was he the victim of
a revolutionary outrage? I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was
interested in social legislation. If so, he is well punished for
his morbidity.

Algernon. My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found
out! The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is
what I mean—so Bunbury died.

Lady Bracknell. He seems to have had great confidence
in the opinion of his physicians. I am glad, however, that he
made up his mind at the last to some definite course of action, and
acted under proper medical advice. And now that we have finally
got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young
person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what seems to
me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?

Jack. That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward.
[Lady Bracknell bows coldly to Cecily.]

Algernon. I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt
Augusta.

Lady Bracknell. I beg your pardon?

Cecily. Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married,
Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell. [With a shiver, crossing to the sofa
and sitting down.] I do not know whether there is anything peculiarly
exciting in the air of this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the
number of engagements that go on seems to me considerably above the
proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance.
I think some preliminary inquiry on my part would not be out of place.
Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected with any of the larger
railway stations in London? I merely desire information.
Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any families or persons
whose origin was a Terminus. [Jack looks perfectly furious,
but restrains himself.]

Jack. [In a clear, cold voice.] Miss Cardew is
the grand-daughter of the late Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square,
S.W.; Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.

Lady Bracknell. That sounds not unsatisfactory.
Three addresses always inspire confidence, even in tradesmen.
But what proof have I of their authenticity?

Jack. I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of
the period. They are open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell. [Grimly.] I have known strange
errors in that publication.

Jack. Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are Messrs.
Markby, Markby, and Markby.

Lady Bracknell. Markby, Markby, and Markby? A
firm of the very highest position in their profession. Indeed
I am told that one of the Mr. Markby’s is occasionally to be seen
at dinner parties. So far I am satisfied.

Jack. [Very irritably.] How extremely kind of
you, Lady Bracknell! I have also in my possession, you will be
pleased to hear, certificates of Miss Cardew’s birth, baptism,
whooping cough, registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the measles;
both the German and the English variety.

Lady Bracknell. Ah! A life crowded with incident, I
see; though perhaps somewhat too exciting for a young girl. I
am not myself in favour of premature experiences. [Rises, looks
at her watch.] Gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure.
We have not a moment to lose. As a matter of form, Mr. Worthing,
I had better ask you if Miss Cardew has any little fortune?

Jack. Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds
in the Funds. That is all. Goodbye, Lady Bracknell.
So pleased to have seen you.

Lady Bracknell. [Sitting down again.] A moment,
Mr. Worthing. A hundred and thirty thousand pounds! And
in the Funds! Miss Cardew seems to me a most attractive young
lady, now that I look at her. Few girls of the present day have
any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve
with time. We live, I regret to say, in an age of surfaces.
[To Cecily.] Come over here, dear. [Cecily
goes across.] Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your
hair seems almost as Nature might have left it. But we can soon
alter all that. A thoroughly experienced French maid produces
a really marvellous result in a very brief space of time. I remember
recommending one to young Lady Lancing, and after three months her own
husband did not know her.

Jack. And after six months nobody knew her.

Lady Bracknell. [Glares at Jack for a few moments.
Then bends, with a practised smile, to Cecily.] Kindly
turn round, sweet child. [Cecily turns completely round.]
No, the side view is what I want. [Cecily presents her
profile.] Yes, quite as I expected. There are distinct social
possibilities in your profile. The two weak points in our age
are its want of principle and its want of profile. The chin a
little higher, dear. Style largely depends on the way the chin
is worn. They are worn very high, just at present. Algernon!

Algernon. Yes, Aunt Augusta!

Lady Bracknell. There are distinct social possibilities
in Miss Cardew’s profile.

Algernon. Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest
girl in the whole world. And I don’t care twopence about
social possibilities.

Lady Bracknell. Never speak disrespectfully of Society,
Algernon. Only people who can’t get into it do that.
[To Cecily.] Dear child, of course you know that Algernon
has nothing but his debts to depend upon. But I do not approve
of mercenary marriages. When I married Lord Bracknell I had no
fortune of any kind. But I never dreamed for a moment of allowing
that to stand in my way. Well, I suppose I must give my consent.

Algernon. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell. Cecily, you may kiss me!

Cecily. [Kisses her.] Thank you, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell. You may also address me as Aunt Augusta
for the future.

Cecily. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell. The marriage, I think, had better take
place quite soon.

Algernon. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Cecily. Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

Lady Bracknell. To speak frankly, I am not in favour
of long engagements. They give people the opportunity of finding
out each other’s character before marriage, which I think is never
advisable.

Jack. I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell,
but this engagement is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew’s
guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of
age. That consent I absolutely decline to give.

Lady Bracknell. Upon what grounds may I ask? Algernon
is an extremely, I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young
man. He has nothing, but he looks everything. What more
can one desire?

Jack. It pains me very much to have to speak frankly
to you, Lady Bracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that I do
not approve at all of his moral character. I suspect him of being
untruthful. [Algernon and Cecily look at him in
indignant amazement.]

Lady Bracknell. Untruthful! My nephew Algernon?
Impossible! He is an Oxonian.

Jack. I fear there can be no possible doubt about the
matter. This afternoon during my temporary absence in London on
an important question of romance, he obtained admission to my house
by means of the false pretence of being my brother. Under an assumed
name he drank, I’ve just been informed by my butler, an entire
pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, ’89; wine I was specially
reserving for myself. Continuing his disgraceful deception, he
succeeded in the course of the afternoon in alienating the affections
of my only ward. He subsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every
single muffin. And what makes his conduct all the more heartless
is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first that I have no brother,
that I never had a brother, and that I don’t intend to have a
brother, not even of any kind. I distinctly told him so myself
yesterday afternoon.

Lady Bracknell. Ahem! Mr. Worthing, after careful
consideration I have decided entirely to overlook my nephew’s
conduct to you.

Jack. That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell.
My own decision, however, is unalterable. I decline to give my
consent.

Lady Bracknell. [To Cecily.] Come here,
sweet child. [Cecily goes over.] How old are you,
dear?

Cecily. Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always
admit to twenty when I go to evening parties.

Lady Bracknell. You are perfectly right in making some
slight alteration. Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate
about her age. It looks so calculating . . . [In a meditative
manner.] Eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties.
Well, it will not be very long before you are of age and free from the
restraints of tutelage. So I don’t think your guardian’s
consent is, after all, a matter of any importance.

Jack. Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting
you again, but it is only fair to tell you that according to the terms
of her grandfather’s will Miss Cardew does not come legally of
age till she is thirty-five.

Lady Bracknell. That does not seem to me to be a grave
objection. Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London
society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their
own free choice, remained thirty-five for years. Lady Dumbleton
is an instance in point. To my own knowledge she has been thirty-five
ever since she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago
now. I see no reason why our dear Cecily should not be even still
more attractive at the age you mention than she is at present.
There will be a large accumulation of property.

Cecily. Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?

Algernon. Of course I could, Cecily. You know
I could.

Cecily. Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t
wait all that time. I hate waiting even five minutes for anybody.
It always makes me rather cross. I am not punctual myself, I know,
but I do like punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married,
is quite out of the question.

Algernon. Then what is to be done, Cecily?

Cecily. I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff.

Lady Bracknell. My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew
states positively that she cannot wait till she is thirty-five—a
remark which I am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient
nature—I would beg of you to reconsider your decision.

Jack. But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely
in your own hands. The moment you consent to my marriage with
Gwendolen, I will most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance
with my ward.

Lady Bracknell. [Rising and drawing herself up.]
You must be quite aware that what you propose is out of the question.

Jack. Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of
us can look forward to.

Lady Bracknell. That is not the destiny I propose for
Gwendolen. Algernon, of course, can choose for himself.
[Pulls out her watch.] Come, dear, [Gwendolen rises] we
have already missed five, if not six, trains. To miss any more
might expose us to comment on the platform.

[Enter Dr. Chasuble.]

Chasuble. Everything is quite ready for the christenings.

Lady Bracknell. The christenings, sir! Is not
that somewhat premature?

Chasuble. [Looking rather puzzled, and pointing to Jack
and Algernon.] Both these gentlemen have expressed a desire
for immediate baptism.

Lady Bracknell. At their age? The idea is grotesque
and irreligious! Algernon, I forbid you to be baptized.
I will not hear of such excesses. Lord Bracknell would be highly
displeased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your
time and money.

Chasuble. Am I to understand then that there are to
be no christenings at all this afternoon?

Jack. I don’t think that, as things are now, it
would be of much practical value to either of us, Dr. Chasuble.

Chasuble. I am grieved to hear such sentiments from
you, Mr. Worthing. They savour of the heretical views of the Anabaptists,
views that I have completely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons.
However, as your present mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, I
will return to the church at once. Indeed, I have just been informed
by the pew-opener that for the last hour and a half Miss Prism has been
waiting for me in the vestry.

Lady Bracknell. [Starting.] Miss Prism!
Did I bear you mention a Miss Prism?

Chasuble. Yes, Lady Bracknell. I am on my way
to join her.

Lady Bracknell. Pray allow me to detain you for a moment.
This matter may prove to be one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell
and myself. Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely
connected with education?

Chasuble. [Somewhat indignantly.] She is the most
cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability.

Lady Bracknell. It is obviously the same person.
May I ask what position she holds in your household?

Chasuble. [Severely.] I am a celibate, madam.

Jack. [Interposing.] Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell,
has been for the last three years Miss Cardew’s esteemed governess
and valued companion.

Lady Bracknell. In spite of what I hear of her, I must
see her at once. Let her be sent for.

Chasuble. [Looking off.] She approaches; she is
nigh.

[Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.]

Miss Prism. I was told you expected me in the vestry,
dear Canon. I have been waiting for you there for an hour and
three-quarters. [Catches sight of Lady Bracknell, who has
fixed her with a stony glare. Miss Prism grows pale and
quails. She looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.]

Lady Bracknell. [In a severe, judicial voice.]
Prism! [Miss Prism bows her head in shame.] Come
here, Prism! [Miss Prism approaches in a humble manner.]
Prism! Where is that baby? [General consternation.
The Canon starts back in horror. Algernon and Jack
pretend to be anxious to shield Cecily and Gwendolen from
hearing the details of a terrible public scandal.] Twenty-eight
years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell’s house, Number 104,
Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a
baby of the male sex. You never returned. A few weeks later,
through the elaborate investigations of the Metropolitan police, the
perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote
corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a three-volume
novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [Miss
Prism starts in involuntary indignation.] But the baby was
not there! [Every one looks at Miss Prism.] Prism!
Where is that baby? [A pause.]

Miss Prism. Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that
I do not know. I only wish I did. The plain facts of the
case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that
is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby
out in its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but
capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of
a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours.
In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself,
I deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and placed the baby in
the hand-bag.

Jack. [Who has been listening attentively.] But
where did you deposit the hand-bag?

Miss Prism. Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

Jack. Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance
to me. I insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that
contained that infant.

Miss Prism. I left it in the cloak-room of one of the
larger railway stations in London.

Jack. What railway station?

Miss Prism. [Quite crushed.] Victoria. The
Brighton line. [Sinks into a chair.]

Jack. I must retire to my room for a moment. Gwendolen,
wait here for me.

Gwendolen. If you are not too long, I will wait here
for you all my life. [Exit Jack in great excitement.]

Chasuble. What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?

Lady Bracknell. I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble.
I need hardly tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences
are not supposed to occur. They are hardly considered the thing.

[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about.
Every one looks up.]

Cecily. Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

Chasuble. Your guardian has a very emotional nature.

Lady Bracknell. This noise is extremely unpleasant.
It sounds as if he was having an argument. I dislike arguments
of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing.

Chasuble. [Looking up.] It has stopped now.
[The noise is redoubled.]

Lady Bracknell. I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.

Gwendolen. This suspense is terrible. I hope it
will last. [Enter Jack with a hand-bag of black leather
in his hand.]

Jack. [Rushing over to Miss Prism.] Is
this the hand-bag, Miss Prism? Examine it carefully before you
speak. The happiness of more than one life depends on your answer.

Miss Prism. [Calmly.] It seems to be mine.
Yes, here is the injury it received through the upsetting of a Gower
Street omnibus in younger and happier days. Here is the stain
on the lining caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident
that occurred at Leamington. And here, on the lock, are my initials.
I had forgotten that in an extravagant mood I had had them placed there.
The bag is undoubtedly mine. I am delighted to have it so unexpectedly
restored to me. It has been a great inconvenience being without
it all these years.

Jack. [In a pathetic voice.] Miss Prism, more
is restored to you than this hand-bag. I was the baby you placed
in it.

Miss Prism. [Amazed.] You?

Jack. [Embracing her.] Yes . . . mother!

Miss Prism. [Recoiling in indignant astonishment.]
Mr. Worthing! I am unmarried!

Jack. Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious
blow. But after all, who has the right to cast a stone against
one who has suffered? Cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly?
Why should there be one law for men, and another for women? Mother,
I forgive you. [Tries to embrace her again.]

Miss Prism. [Still more indignant.] Mr. Worthing,
there is some error. [Pointing to Lady Bracknell.]
There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.

Jack. [After a pause.] Lady Bracknell, I hate
to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?

Lady Bracknell. I am afraid that the news I have to
give you will not altogether please you. You are the son of my
poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequently Algernon’s elder
brother.

Jack. Algy’s elder brother! Then I have
a brother after all. I knew I had a brother! I always said
I had a brother! Cecily,—how could you have ever doubted
that I had a brother? [Seizes hold of Algernon.]
Dr. Chasuble, my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate
brother. Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy, you young
scoundrel, you will have to treat me with more respect in the future.
You have never behaved to me like a brother in all your life.

Algernon. Well, not till to-day, old boy, I admit.
I did my best, however, though I was out of practice.

[Shakes hands.]

Gwendolen. [To Jack.] My own! But
what own are you? What is your Christian name, now that you have
become some one else?

Jack. Good heavens! . . . I had quite forgotten that
point. Your decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable,
I suppose?

Gwendolen. I never change, except in my affections.

Cecily. What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!

Jack. Then the question had better be cleared up at
once. Aunt Augusta, a moment. At the time when Miss Prism
left me in the hand-bag, had I been christened already?

Lady Bracknell. Every luxury that money could buy, including
christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents.

Jack. Then I was christened! That is settled.
Now, what name was I given? Let me know the worst.

Lady Bracknell. Being the eldest son you were naturally
christened after your father.

Jack. [Irritably.] Yes, but what was my father’s
Christian name?

Lady Bracknell. [Meditatively.] I cannot at the
present moment recall what the General’s Christian name was.
But I have no doubt he had one. He was eccentric, I admit.
But only in later years. And that was the result of the Indian
climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of that kind.

Jack. Algy! Can’t you recollect what our
father’s Christian name was?

Algernon. My dear boy, we were never even on speaking
terms. He died before I was a year old.

Jack. His name would appear in the Army Lists of the
period, I suppose, Aunt Augusta?

Lady Bracknell. The General was essentially a man of
peace, except in his domestic life. But I have no doubt his name
would appear in any military directory.

Jack. The Army Lists of the last forty years are here.
These delightful records should have been my constant study. [Rushes
to bookcase and tears the books out.] M. Generals . . . Mallam,
Maxbohm, Magley, what ghastly names they have—Markby, Migsby,
Mobbs, Moncrieff! Lieutenant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel,
Colonel, General 1869, Christian names, Ernest John. [Puts book
very quietly down and speaks quite calmly.] I always told you,
Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it is Ernest
after all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.

Lady Bracknell. Yes, I remember now that the General
was called Ernest, I knew I had some particular reason for disliking
the name.

Gwendolen. Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt
from the first that you could have no other name!

Jack. Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to
find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but
the truth. Can you forgive me?

Gwendolen. I can. For I feel that you are sure
to change.

Jack. My own one!

Chasuble. [To Miss Prism.] Lætitia!
[Embraces her]

Miss Prism. [Enthusiastically.] Frederick!
At last!

Algernon. Cecily! [Embraces her.] At last!

Jack. Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last!

Lady Bracknell. My nephew, you seem to be displaying
signs of triviality.

Jack. On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now
realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being
Earnest.

TABLEAU

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST ***

http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg