My dear Robert, it's a very awkward business, very awkward indeed. You should have told your wife the whole thing. Secrets from other people's wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. So, at least, I am always told at the club by people who are bald enough to know better. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out. Wo-

   Arthur, I couldn't tell my wife. When could I have told her? Not last night. It would have made a life-long separation between us, and I would have lost the love of the one woman in the world I worship, of the only woman who has ever stirred love within me. Last night it would have been quite impossible. She would have turned from me in horror . . . in horror and in contempt.

   Is Lady Chiltern as perfect as all that?

   Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that.

   What a pity! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I didn't quite mean that. But if what you tell me is true, I should like to have a serious talk about life with Lady Chiltern.

   It would be quite useless.

   May I try?

   Yes; but nothing could make her alter her views.

   Well, at the worst it would simply be a psychological experiment.

   All such experiments are terribly dangerous.

   Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn't so, life wouldn't be worth living. . . . Well, I am bound to say that I think you should have told her years ago.

   When? When we were engaged? Do you think she would have married me if she had known that the origin of my fortune is such as it is, the basis of my career such as it is, and

   Yes; most men would call it ugly names. There is no doubt of that.

   Men who every day do something of the same kind themselves. Men who, each one of them, have worse secrets in their own lives.

   That is the reason they are so pleased to find out other people's secrets. It distracts public attention from their own.

   And, after all, whom did I wrong by what I did? No one.

   Except yourself, Robert.

   Of course I had private in-

   And public scandal invariably the result.

   Arthur, do you think that what I did nearly eighteen years ago should be brought up against me now? Do you think it fair that a man's whole career should be ruined for a fault done in one's boyhood almost? I was twenty-two at the time, and I had the double misfortune of being well-born and poor, two unforgiveable things nowadays. Is it fair that the folly, the sin of one's youth, if men choose to call it a sin, should wreck a life like mine, should place me in the pillory, should shatter all that I have worked for, all that I have built up. Is it fair, Arthur?

   Life is never fair, Robert. And perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not.

   Every man of ambition has to fight his century with its own weapons. What this century worships is wealth. The God of this century is wealth. To succeed one must have wealth. At all costs one must have wealth.

   You underrate yourself, Robert. Believe me, without wealth you could have succeeded just as well.

   When I was old, perhaps. When I had lost my passion for power, or could not use it. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed. I wanted my success when I was young. Youth is the time for success. I couldn't wait.

   Well, you certainly have had your success while you are still young. No one in our day has had such a brilliant success. Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs at the age of forty-that's good enough for any one, I should think.

   And if it is all taken away from me now? If

   Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money?

   I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great price. That is all.

   Yes; you certainly paid a great price for it. But what first made you think of doing such a thing?

   Baron Arnheim.

   Damned scoundrel!

   No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect. A man of culture, charm, and distinction. One of the most intellectual men I ever met.

   Ah! I prefer a gentlemanly fool any day. There is more to be said for stupidity than people imagine. Personally I have a great admiration for stupidity. It is a sort of fellow-feeling, I suppose. But how did he do it? Tell me the whole thing.

   One night after dinner at Lord Radley's the Baron began talking about success in modern life as something that one could reduce to an absolutely definite science. With that wonderfully fascinating quiet voice of his he expounded to us the most terrible of all philosophies, the philosophy of power, preached to us the most marvellous of all gospels, the gospel of gold. I think he saw the effect he had produced on me, for some days afterwards he wrote and asked me to come and see him. He was living then in Park Lane, in the house Lord Woolcomb has now. I remember so well how, with a strange smile on his pale, curved lips, he led me through his wonderful picture gallery, showed me his tapestries, his enamels, his jewels, his carved ivories, made me wonder at the strange

   A thoroughly shallow creed.

   I didn't think so then. I don't think so now. Wealth has given me enormous power. It gave me at the very outset of my life freedom, and freedom is everything. You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is. You cannot understand what a wonderful chance the Baron gave me. Such a chance as few men get.

   Fortunately for them, if one is to judge by results. But tell me definitely, how did the Baron finally persuade you to-well, to do what you did?

   When I was going away he said to me that if I ever could give him any private information of real value he would make me a very rich man. I was dazed at the prospect he held out to me, and my ambition and my desire for power were at that time boundless. Six weeks later certain private documents passed through my hands.

   State documents?

   Yes.

   I had no idea that you, of all men in the world, could have been so weak, Robert, as to yield to such a temptation as Baron Arnheim held out to you.

   Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase.

   And you?

   I received from the Baron 110,000 pounds.

   You were worth more, Robert.

   No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted, power over others. I went into the House immediately. The Baron advised me in finance

   But tell me, Robert, did you never suffer any regret for what you had done?

   No. I felt that I had fought the century with its own weapons, and won.

   You thought you had won.

   I thought so.

   Arthur, do you despise me for what I have told you?

   I am very sorry for you, Robert, very sorry indeed.

   I don't say that I suffered any remorse. I didn't. Not remorse in the ordinary, rather silly sense of the word. But I have paid conscience money many times. I had a wild hope that I might disarm destiny. The sum Baron Arnheim gave me I have distributed twice over in public charities since then.

   In public charities? Dear me! what a lot of harm you must have done, Robert!

   Oh, don't say that, Arthur; don't talk like that!

   Never mind what I say, Robert! I am always saying what I shouldn't say. In fact, I usually say what I really think. A great mistake nowadays. It makes one so liable to be misunderstood. As regards this dreadful business, I will help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that.

   Thank you, Arthur, thank you. But what is to be done? What can be done?

   Well, the English can't stand a man who is always saying he is in the right, but they are very fond of a man who admits that he has been in the wrong. It is one of the best things in them. However, in your case, Robert, a confession would not do. The money, if you will allow me to say so, is . . . awkward. Besides, if you did make a clean breast of the whole affair, you would never be able to talk morality again. And in England a man who can't talk morality twice a week to a large, popular, immoral audience is quite over as a serious politician. There would be nothing left for him as a profession except Botany or the Church. A confession would be of no use. It would ruin you.

   It would ruin me. Arthur, the only thing for me to do now is to fight the thing out.

   I was waiting for

   That I will not do.

   Robert, believe me, you are wrong.

   I couldn't do it. It would kill her love for me. And now about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley. How can I defend myself against her? You knew her before, Arthur, apparently.

   Yes.

   Did you know her well?

   So little that I got engaged to be married to her once, when I was staying at the Tenbys'. The affair lasted for three days . . . nearly.

   Why was it broken off?

   Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter. By the way, have you tried her with money? She used to be confoundedly fond of money.

   I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused.

   Then the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes. The rich can't do everything, after all.

   Not everything. I suppose you are right. Arthur, I feel that public disgrace is in store for me. I feel certain of it. I never knew what terror was before. I know it now. It is as if a hand of ice were laid upon one's heart. It is as if one's heart were beating itself to death in some empty hollow.

   Robert, you must fight her. You must fight her.

   But how?

   I can't tell you how at present. I have not the smallest idea. But every one has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one of us.

   My father tells me that even I have faults. Perhaps I have. I don't know.

   In defending myself against Mrs. Cheveley, I have a right to use any weapon I can find, have I not?

   In your place I don't think I should have the smallest scruple in doing so. She is thoroughly well able to take care of herself.

   Well, I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna, to inquire if there is anything known against her. There may be some secret scandal she might be afraid of.

   Oh, I should fancy Mrs. Cheveley is one of those very modern women of our time who find a new scandal as becoming as a new bonnet, and air them both in the Park every afternoon at five-thirty. I am sure she adores scandals, and that the sorrow of her life at present is that she can't manage to have enough of them.

   Why do you say that?

   Well, she wore far too much rouge last night, and not quite enough clothes. That is always a sign of despair in a woman.

   But it is worth while my wiring to Vienna, is it not?

   It is always worth while asking a question, though it is not always worth while answering one.

   Is Mr. Trafford in his room?

   Yes, Sir Robert.

   Tell him to have this sent off in cipher at once. There must not be a moment's delay.

   Yes, Sir Robert.

   Oh! just give that back to me again.

   She must have had some curious hold over Baron Arnheim. I wonder what it was.

   I wonder.

   I will fight her to the death, as long as my wife knows nothing.

   Oh, fight in any case-in any case.

   If my wife found out, there would be little left to fight for. Well, as soon as I hear from Vienna, I shall let you know the result. It is a chance, just a chance, but I believe in it. And as I fought the age with its own weapons, I will fight her with her weapons. It is only fair, and she looks like a woman with a past, doesn't she?

   Most pretty women do. But there is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks. Per-

   Oh! I live on hopes now. I clutch at every chance. I feel like a man on a ship that is sinking. The water is round my feet, and the very air is bitter with storm. Hush! I hear my wife's voice.

   Good afternoon, Lord Goring!

   Good afternoon, Lady Chiltern! Have you been in the Park?

   No: I have just come from the Woman's Liberal Association, where, by the way, Robert,

   You will wait and have some tea, won't you?

   I'll wait for a short time, thanks.

   I will be back in a moment. I am only going to take my hat off.

   Oh! please don't. It is so pretty. One of the prettiest hats I ever saw. I hope the Woman's Liberal Association received it with loud applause.

   We have much more important work to do than look at each other's bonnets, Lord Goring.

   Really? What sort of work?

   Oh! dull, useful, delightful things, Factory

   And never bonnets?

   Never bonnets, never!

   You have been a good friend to me, Arthur, a thoroughly good friend.

   I don't know that I have been able to do much for you, Robert, as yet. In fact, I have not been able to do anything for you, as far as I can see. I am thoroughly disappointed with myself.

   You have enabled me to tell you the truth.

   Ah! the truth is a thing I get rid of as soon as possible! Bad habit, by the way. Makes one very unpopular at the club . . . with the older members. They call it being conceited. Perhaps it is.

   I would to God that I had been able to tell the truth . . . to live the truth. Ah! that is the great thing in life, to live the truth.

   I'll see you soon again, Arthur, shan't I?

   Certainly. Whenever you like. I'm going to look in at the Bachelors' Ball to-night, unless I find something better to do. But I'll come round to-morrow morning. If you should want me to-night by any chance, send round a note to Curzon Street.

   Thank you.

   You are not going, Robert?

   I have some letters to write, dear.

   You work too hard, Robert. You seem never to think of yourself, and you are looking so tired.

   It is nothing, dear, nothing.

   Do sit down. I am so glad you have called. I want to talk to you about . . . well, not about bonnets, or the Woman's Liberal Association. You take far too much interest in the first subject, and not nearly enough in the second.

   You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley?

   Yes. You have guessed it. After you left last night I found out that what she had said was really true. Of course I made Robert write her a letter at once, withdrawing his promise.

   So he gave me to understand.

   To have kept it would have been the first stain on a career that has been stainless always. Robert must be above reproach. He is not like other men. He cannot afford to do what other men do.

   Don't you agree with me? You are Robert's greatest friend. You are our greatest friend, Lord Goring. No one, except myself, knows Robert better than you do. He has no secrets from me, and I don't think he has any from you.

   He certainly has no secrets from me. At least I don't think so.

   Then am I not right in my estimate of him? I know I am right. But speak to me frankly.

   Quite frankly?

   Surely. You have nothing to conceal, have you?

   Nothing. But, my dear Lady Chiltern, I think, if you will allow me to say so, that in practical life-

   Of which you know so little, Lord Goring-

   Of which I know nothing by experience, though I know something by observation. I think that in practical life there is something about success, actual success, that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always. Once a man has set his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if

   Well?

   He walks in the mire. Of course I am only talking generally about life.

   I hope so. Why do you look at me so strangely, Lord Goring?

   Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought that . . . perhaps you are a little hard in some of your views on life. I think that . . . often you don't make sufficient allowances. In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance, that-that any public man, my father, or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to some one . . .

   What do you mean by a foolish letter?

   A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am only putting an imaginary case.

   Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing as he is of doing a wrong thing.

   Nobody is incapable of doing a foolish thing. Nobody is incapable of doing a wrong thing.

   Are you a Pessimist? What will the other dandies say? They will all have to go into mourning.

   No, Lady Chiltern, I am not a Pessimist. Indeed I am not sure that I quite know what Pessimism really means. All I do know is that life cannot be understood without much charity, cannot be lived without much charity. It is love, and not German philosophy, that is the true explanation of this world, whatever may be the explanation of the next. And if you

   Lord Goring, you are talking quite seriously. I don't think I ever heard you talk seriously before.

   You must excuse me, Lady Chiltern. It won't occur again, if I can help it.

   But I like you to be serious.

   Dear Gertrude, don't say such a dreadful thing to Lord Goring. Seriousness would be very unbecoming to him. Good afternoon Lord Goring! Pray be as trivial as you can.

   I should like to, Miss Mabel, but I am afraid I am . . . a little out of practice this morning; and besides, I have to be going now.

   Just when I have come in! What dreadful manners you have! I am sure you were very badly brought up.

   I was.

   I wish I had brought you up!

   I am so sorry you didn't.

   It is too late now, I suppose

   I am not so sure.

   Will you ride to-morrow morning?

   Yes, at ten.

   Don't forget

   Of course I shan't. By the way, Lady Chiltern, there is no list of your guests in THE MORNING POST of to-day. It has apparently been crowded out by the County Council, or the Lambeth Conference, or something equally boring. Could you let me have a list? I have a particular reason for asking you.

   I am sure Mr. Trafford will be able to give you one.

   Thanks, so much.

   Tommy is the most useful person in London.

   And who is the most ornamental?

   I am.

   How clever of you to guess it!

   Good-bye, Lady Chiltern! You will remember what I said to you, won't you?

   Yes; but I don't know why you said it to me.

   I hardly know myself. Good-bye, Miss Mabel!

   I wish you were not going. I have had four wonderful adventures this morning; four and a half, in fact. You might stop and listen to some of them.

   How very selfish of you to have four and a half! There won't be any left for me.

   I don't want you to have any. They would not be good for you.

   That is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me. How charmingly you said it! Ten to-morrow.

   Sharp.

   Quite sharp. But don't bring Mr. Trafford.

   Of course I shan't bring Tommy Trafford. Tommy Trafford is in great disgrace.

   I am delighted to hear it.

   Gertrude, I wish you would speak to Tommy Trafford.

   What has poor Mr. Trafford done this time? Robert says he is the best secretary he has ever had.

   Well, Tommy has proposed to me again. Tommy really does nothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the music-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate trio going on. I didn't dare to make the smallest repartee, I need hardly tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once. Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling. The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his eye that he was going to propose again, and I just managed to check him in time by assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I don't know what bimetallism means. And I don't believe anybody else does either. But the observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He looked quite shocked. And then Tommy is so annoying in the way he proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice, I should

   Dear Mabel, don't talk like that. Besides, Robert thinks very highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future before him.

   Oh! I wouldn't marry a man with a future before him for anything under the sun.

   Mabel!

   I know, dear. You married a man with a future, didn't you? But then Robert was a genius, and you have a noble, self-sacrificing

   Oh, Gertrude, do you know who is coming to see you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a most lovely gown. Did you ask her?

   Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible!

   I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural.

   You need not wait, Mabel. Remember, Lady Basildon is expecting you.

   Oh! I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is delightful. I love being scolded by her.

   Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.

   Dear Lady Markby, how nice of you to come and see me!

   Won't you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley?

   Thanks. Isn't that Miss Chiltern? I should like so much to know her.

   Mabel, Mrs. Cheveley wishes to know you.

   I thought your frock so charming last night, Miss Chiltern. So simple and . . . suitable.

   Really? I must tell my dressmaker. It will be such a surprise to her. Good-bye, Lady Markby!

   Going already?

   I am so sorry but I am obliged to. I am just off to rehearsal. I have got to stand on my head in some tableaux.

   On your head, child? Oh! I hope not. I believe it is most unhealthy.

   But it is for an excellent charity: in aid of the Undeserving, the only people I am really interested in. I am the secretary, and Tommy Trafford is treasurer.

   And what is Lord Goring?

   Oh! Lord Goring is president.

   The post should suit him admirably, unless he has deteriorated since I knew him first.

   You are remarkably modern, Mabel. A little too modern, perhaps. Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern. One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly. I have known many instances of it

   What a dreadful prospect!

   Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous. You will always be as pretty as possible. That is the best fashion there is, and the only fashion that England succeeds in setting.

   Thank you so much, Lady Markby, for England . . . and myself.

   Dear Gertrude, we just called to know if Mrs. Cheveley's diamond brooch has been found.

   Here?

   Yes. I missed it when I got back to Claridge's, and I thought I might possibly have dropped it here.

   I have heard nothing about it. But I will send for the butler and ask.

   Oh, pray don't trouble, Lady Chiltern. I dare say I lost it at the Opera, before we came on here.

   Ah yes, I suppose it must have been at the Opera. The fact is, we all scramble and jostle so much nowadays that I wonder we have anything at all left on us at the end of an evening. I know myself that, when I am coming back from the Drawing Room, I always feel as if I hadn't a shred on me, except a small shred of decent reputation, just enough to prevent the

   I quite agree with you, Lady Markby. It is nearly six years since I have been in London for the Season, and I must say Society has become dreadfully mixed. One sees the oddest people everywhere.

   That is quite true, dear. But one needn't know them. I'm sure I don't know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all I hear, I shouldn't like to.

   What sort of a brooch was it that you lost, Mrs. Cheveley?

   A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby, a rather large ruby?

   I thought you said there was a sapphire on the head, dear?

   No, lady Markby-a ruby.

   And very becoming, I am quite sure.

   Has a ruby and diamond brooch been found in any of the rooms this morning, Mason?

   No, my lady.

   It really is of no consequence, Lady Chiltern. I am so sorry to have put you to any inconvenience.

   Oh, it has been no inconvenience. That will do, Mason. You can bring tea.

   Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything. I remember once at Bath, years ago, losing in the Pump Room an exceedingly handsome cameo bracelet that Sir John had given me. I don't think he has ever given me anything since, I am sorry to say. He has sadly degenerated. Really, this horrid House of Commons quite ruins our husbands for us. I think the Lower House by far the greatest blow to a happy married life that there has been since that terrible thing called the Higher Education of Women was invented.

   Ah! it is heresy to say that in this house, Lady Markby. Robert is a great champion of the Higher Education of Women, and so, I am afraid, am I.

   The higher education of men is what I should like to see. Men need it so sadly.

   They do, dear. But I am afraid such a scheme would be quite unpractical. I don't

   Except their husbands. That is the one thing the modern woman never understands.

   And a very good thing too, dear, I dare say. It might break up many a happy home if they did. Not yours, I need hardly say, Gertrude. You have married a pattern husband. I wish I could say as much for myself. But since Sir John has taken to attending the debates regularly, which he never used to do in the good old days, his language has become quite impossible. He always seems to think that he is addressing

   But I am very much interested in politics, Lady Markby. I love to hear Robert talk about them.

   Well, I hope he is not as devoted to Blue Books as Sir John is. I don't think they can be quite improving reading for any one.

   I have never read a Blue Book. I prefer books . . . in yellow covers.

   Yellow is a gayer colour, is it not? I used to wear yellow a good deal in my early days, and would do so now if Sir John was not so painfully personal in his observations, and a man on the question of dress is always ridiculous, is he not?

   Oh, no! I think men are the only authorities on dress.

   Really? One wouldn't say so from the sort of hats they wear? would one?

   May I give you some tea, Mrs. Cheveley?

   Thanks.

   Some tea, Lady Markby?

   No thanks, dear.

   The fact is, I have promised to go round for ten minutes to see poor Lady Brancaster, who is in very great trouble. Her daughter, quite a well-brought-up girl, too, has actually become engaged to be married to a curate in Shropshire. It is very sad, very sad indeed. I can't understand this modern mania for curates. In my time we girls saw them, of course, running about the place like rabbits. But we never took any notice of them, I need hardly say. But I am told that nowadays country society is quite honeycombed with them. I think it most irreligious. And then the eldest son has quarrelled with his father, and it is said that when they meet at the club Lord Brancaster always hides

   So do I. Fathers have so much to learn from their sons nowadays.

   Really, dear? What?

   The art of living. The only really Fine Art we have produced in modern times.

   Ah! I am afraid Lord Brancaster knew a good deal about that. More than his poor wife ever did.

   You know Lady Brancaster, don't you, dear?

   Just slightly. She was staying at Langton last autumn, when we were there.

   Well, like all stout women, she looks the very picture of happiness, as no doubt you noticed. But there are many tragedies in her family, besides this affair of the curate. Her own sister, Mrs. Jekyll, had a most unhappy life; through no fault of her own, I am sorry to say. She ultimately was so broken-hearted that she went into a convent, or on to the operatic stage, I forget which. No; I think it was decorative art-needlework she took up. I know she had lost all sense of pleasure in life.

   And now, Gertrude, if you will allow me, I shall leave Mrs. Cheveley in your charge and call back for her in a quarter of an hour. Or perhaps, dear Mrs. Cheveley, you wouldn't mind waiting in the carriage while I am with Lady Brancaster. As I intend it to be a visit of condolence, I shan't stay long.

   I don't mind waiting in the car-

   Well, I hear the curate is always prowling about the house.

   I am afraid I am not fond of girl friends.

   Oh, I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a little. I should like to have a few minutes' conversation with her.

   How very kind of you, Lady Chiltern! Believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure.

   Ah! no doubt you both have many pleasant reminiscences of your schooldays to talk over together. Good-bye, dear Gertrude! Shall I see you at Lady Bonar's to-night? She has discovered a wonderful new genius. He does . . . nothing at all, I believe. That is a great comfort, is it not?

   Robert and I are dining at home by ourselves to-night, and I don't think I shall go anywhere afterwards. Robert, of course, will have to be in the House. But there is nothing interesting on.

   Dining at home by yourselves? Is that quite prudent? Ah, I forgot, your husband is an exception. Mine is the general rule, and nothing ages a woman so rapidly as having married the general rule.

   Wonderful woman, Lady Markby, isn't she? Talks more and says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker. Much more so than her husband, though he is a typical Englishman, always dull and usually violent.

   Mrs. Cheveley, I think it is right to tell you quite

   Really?

   I could not have done so.

   I see that after all these years you have not changed a bit, Gertrude.

   I never change.

   Then life has taught you nothing?

   It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty of a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second time, and should be shunned.

   Would you apply that rule to every one?

   Yes, to every one, without exception.

   Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you.

   You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite impossible?

   Do you know, Gertrude, I don't mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I am quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have come here to do you a service.

   Like the service you wished to render my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from that.

   It was you who made

   Yes.

   Then you must make him keep it. I give you till to-morrow morning-no more. If by that time your husband does not solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am interested-

   This fraudulent speculation-

   Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the hollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell him.

   You are impertinent. What has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you?

   In this world like

   How dare you class my husband with yourself? How dare you threaten him or me? Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it.

   Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour. A house, everything in which has been paid for by fraud.

   Ask him what the origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your position.

   It is not true! Robert! It is not true!

   Look at him! Can he deny it? Does he dare to?

   Go! Go at once. You have done your worst now.

   My worst? I have not yet finished with you, with either of you. I give you both till to-morrow at noon. If by then you don't do what I bid you to do, the whole world shall know the origin of Robert Chiltern.

   Show Mrs. Cheveley out.

   You sold a Cabinet secret for money! You began your life with fraud! You built up your career on dishonour! Oh, tell me it is not true! Lie to me! Lie to me! Tell me it is not true!

   What this woman said is quite true. But, Gertrude, listen to me. You don't realise how I was tempted. Let me tell you the whole thing.

   Don't come near me. Don't touch me. I feel as if you had soiled me for ever. Oh! what a mask you have been wearing all these years! A horrible painted mask! You sold yourself for money. Oh! a common thief were better. You put yourself up to sale to the highest bidder! You were bought in the market. You

   Gertrude! Gertrude!

   No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories-memories of things that made me love you-memories of words that made me love you-memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now-oh, when I think that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life!

   There was your mistake. There was your error. The error all women commit. Why can't you women love us, faults and all? Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men;