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Here is Hyde Park Corner, 1895...

... when Grandmama and leisure were alive.

When Britain ruled the wave and held up the purse...

... here was the centre of the Universe.

Here broughams were drawn by spankers . ??? are bitty.

Dames were wasp waisted and their men wasp witty.

Youth is an art, and beauty a profession.

Season spins and Parliament spins session.

Oh, laces, braces, 18 buttons gloves ...

Oh shepparads ???, silk hats and scandal loves.

Naughty Nineties grows upon the spin...

... Victoria reigns, the passion is the queen.

- You've gotten a buttonhole for me, Phipps? - Yes, my lord.

Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person of the smallest importance

in London at present who wears a buttonhole.

- Yes, my lord. I have observed that. - You see, Phipps, fashion is what one wears oneself.

- What is unfashionable is what other people wear. -Yes, my lord.

Just as vulgarity is simply

the conduct of other people.

- Yes, my lord. - And falsehoods

the truths of other people.

- Yes, my lord. - Other people are quite dreadful, Phipps.

The only possible society is oneself.

Yes, my lord.

To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong

- romance, Phipps. - Yes, my lord.

I am not quite sure I like this buttonhole, Phipps.

Makes me look a little old.

Almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps?

I have not observed any alteration in your lordship’s appearance.

- Haven't, Phipps? - No, my lord.

I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial buttonhole,

Phipps, on Thursday evenings.

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.

Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England, Phipps —

they are always losing their relations.

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

Thank you. You can go now.

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.

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.

Then he proposed in broad daylight

this morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles.

And then Tommy is so annoying in the way which he proposes.

If he proposed at the top of his voice, I should not mind so much.

That might produce some effect on the public.

But he does it in a horrid confidential way.

I wish, that you would speak to him, and tell him

that once a week is quite often enough to propose to any one,

and that it should always be done in a manner that attracts some attention.

Robert thinks very highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant future before him.

Oh! I wouldn’t never marry a man with a future before him.

Not for anything under the sun.

- Mabel! - I know, dear.

You married a man with a future, didn’t you?

But then my brother is a genius, and you have a noble, self-sacrificing character.

You can stand geniuses.

I have no character at all, and Robert is the only genius that I've ever been able to bear.

As a rule, I find them quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much, don’t they?

Such a bad habit!

And they are always thinking about themselves, when I want them to be thinking about me.

Robert, doesn't she look beautiful?

Yes, you do look beautiful.

They've started to arrive. I think I better go upstairs.

Sir Michael and Lady Vera Hankinson.

His excellency, the Brazilian Ambassador.

Doctor and Mrs. Owen Abedare.

Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse Gaston Saint-Michel.

Vice Admiral and Mrs. Philip Stevenson.

Mr. and Mrs. Rupert Gallacher.

Señor and señora Juan López Olivera de Colabán.

Brigadier general and Mrs. Manders.

Sir John and Lady Henly-Attenborough.

The earl of Caversham.

- Good evening, Lady Chiltern! - How are you?

Nice of you to invite me. Robert.

Had that good-for-nothing young son of mine been here?

- I don’t think Lord Goring has arrived yet. - Good evening, Lord Caversham.

Why do you call Lord Goring good-for-nothing?

Because he leads such an idle life.

How can you say such a thing?

Why, he rides in the Row at ten o’clock in the morning,

he goes to the Opera three times a week,

he changes his clothes at least five times a day,

and he dines out every night of the season.

You don’t call that leading an idle life, do you?

You are a very charming young lady!

How sweet of you to say that, Lord Caversham!

Do come to us more often. You know we are always at home on Wednesdays,

No, no. Never go out now.

Sick of London Society.

Wouldn’t mind being introduced to my own tailor; he always votes on the right side.

But object strongly to being sent down to dinner with my wife’s milliner.

I never could stand Lady Caversham’s bonnets.

But I love London Society!

I think it has immensely improved.

It is now entirely composed of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics.

- Just what Society should be. - Hum! Which is Goring?

Beautiful idiot, or the other thing?

I have been obliged for the present to put Lord Goring into a class quite by himself.

- But he is developing charmingly! - Into what?

I hope to let you know very soon, Lord Caversham!

I'll be very glad.

Dr. and Mrs. James Glendening.

Mackenzie of Mackenzie and Honourable Alison Mackenzie.

Sir Michael and Lady O'Reilly.

Baron and Baroness Von Bretfeld Kronenburg.

His Excellency Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

Monsieur and madame Etienne Sambreuse.

Colonel Sir Charles Scales and Lady Scales.

Lady Markby and Mrs. Cheveley.

Good evening, dear Gertrude!

So kind of you to let me bring my friend, Mrs. Cheveley.

Two such charming women should know each other!

I think Mrs. Cheveley and I have met before.

I did not know she had married a second time.

Ah, nowadays people marry as often as they can, don’t they? It is most fashionable.

But have we really met before?

I can’t remember where. I have been out of England for so long.

We were at school together, Mrs. Cheveley.

Indeed?

I have forgotten all about my schooldays.

I have a vague impression that they were detestable.

I am not surprised!

Do you know, I am quite looking forward

to meeting your clever husband, Lady Chiltern.

Ah, Chère madame, quelle surprise!

- I don't think it's been since ... Madrid. - Madrid, Vicomte.

Sir Archibald and Lady Monaghan.

Lord and Lady Dorsetshire.

And you are younger and more beautiful than ever.

- How do you manage it? - By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly

charming people like yourself. - Ah! you

flatter me. You butter me, as they say here.

Do they say that here? How dreadful of them!

My dear, Sir Robert Chiltern is dying to know you!

Everyone is dying to know the brilliant Mrs. Cheveley.

Our attachés at Vienna write to us about nothing else.

Thank you, Sir Robert.

An acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship.

It starts in the right manner.

- And I find I know Lady Chiltern already. - Oh, really? - Yes,

She's just reminded me that we were at school together.

I remember perfectly now. She always got

the good conduct prize.

I have a distinct recollection of Lady Chiltern always getting the good conduct prize!

And what prizes did you get, Mrs. Cheveley?

My prizes came a little later on in life.

I don’t think any of them were for good conduct.

I am sure they were for something charming!

I don’t know that women are always rewarded for being charming.

I think they are usually punished for it!

Tell me, what makes you leave your brilliant Vienna for our gloomy London?

- Is it politics or is it pleasure? - Politics are my only pleasure.

- A political life is a noble career! - Sometimes.

And sometimes it is a clever game.

- Sometimes it is a great nuisance. - And which do you find it?

I? A combination of all three.

Mr. and Mrs. Rupert Arrowsmith.

Lord Goring.

- You are very late! - Have you missed me?

- Awfully! - Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer.

- I like being missed. - How very selfish of you!

I am very selfish.

You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord Goring.

- I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel! - Are the others very bad?

Quite dreadful! When I think of them at night I go to sleep at once.

Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn’t have you part with one of them.

How very nice of you!

But you always are very nice.

By the way, Miss Mabel, I want to ask you a question.

Who brought Mrs. Cheveley - that woman in a mauve-green?

Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her.

What sort of a woman is she?

Oh! a genius by the day and a beauty at night!

- I dislike her already. - That shows your admirable good taste.

May I have the pleasure of escorting you to the music-room, Mademoiselle?

Delighted, quite delighted!

Well, sir! what are you doing here? Wasting your life as usual!

Ought to be in bed. You keep too late hours!

I heard of you the other night at Lady Rufford’s dancing

till four o’clock in the morning!

No, father, only a quarter to four.

Can’t make out how you stand London Society.

The thing has gone to the dogs,

a lot of silly nobodies talking about nothing.

I love talking about nothing, father. It is the only thing I know anything about.

- You seem to me to be living entirely for pleasure. - What else is there to live for, father?

Nothing ages like happiness.

You are heartless, sir,

- very heartless! - Oh, I hope not, father.

How's your husband?

What makes you honour London so suddenly.

Our season is nearly over.

I wanted to meet you. It is quite true.

You know what a woman’s curiosity is. Almost as great as a man’s!

I wanted immensely to meet you, and . . . to ask you to do something for me.

Oh, I hope it is not a little thing.

I find that little things are so difficult to do.

No, I don’t think it is quite a little thing.

I am so glad. Do tell me what is it?

Later on.

And now may I walk through your beautiful house?

I hear your pictures are charming.

Poor Baron Arnheim — you remember the Baron? —

used to tell me you had some wonderful paintings.

- Did you know Baron Arnheim well? - Intimately. Did you?

- At one time, yes. - Wonderful man, wasn’t he?

He was very remarkable, in many ways.

I often think it such a pity he never wrote his memoirs.

They would have been most interesting.

Ah, my dear Arthur! Mrs. Cheveley, allow me to introduce

Lord Goring, the idlest man in London.

I have met Lord Goring before.

- I did not think you would remember me, Mrs. Cheveley. - My memory is under admirable control.

And are you still a bachelor?

I . . . believe so.

- How very romantic! - Oh! I am not at all romantic.

I am not old enough. I leave romance to my seniors.

Lord Goring is the result of Boodle’s Club, Mrs. Cheveley.

He reflects every credit on the institution.

A man talked to me about his wife the whole time.

How very trivial of him!

What martyrs we are, dear Margaret!

And how well it becomes us, Olivia!

I am afraid Lord Goring is in the camp of the enemy, as usual.

I saw him talking to that Mrs. Cheveley when he came in.

Very handsome woman, Mrs. Cheveley!

Please don’t praise other women in our presence.

- You might wait for us to do that! - I did wait.

Well, we are not going to praise her.

I hear that she went to the Opera on Monday night, and said that, as far as she could see,

London Society was entirely made up of dowdies and dandies.

She is quite right there.

The men are all dowdies and the women are all dandies, aren’t they?

Oh! do you really think that is what Mrs. Cheveley meant?

Why are you talking about Mrs. Cheveley?

Everybody is talking about Mrs. Cheveley!

Lord Goring, I am very hungry, will you give me some supper?

With pleasure.

How very horrid you are! You haven't spoken to me at all!

How could I? You went away with the child-diplomatist.

You could have followed us.

Pursuit would have been at least polite.

- I don’t think I like you at all this evening! - I like you tremendously.

Well, I wish you’d show it in a more marked way!

Olivia, I have a curious feeling of absolute faintness.

I think I should like some supper very much.

I know I should like some supper.

I am positively dying for supper, Margaret!

Men are so horribly selfish, they never think of these things.

Men are grossly material, grossly material!

Comtesse, may I have the honour of taking you down to supper?

I never take supper, thank you, Vicomte.

But I will come down with you with pleasure.

- Like some supper, Mrs. Marchmont? - Thank you, Mr. Montford, I never touch supper.

But I will sit beside you, and watch you.

I don’t know that I like being watched when I am eating!

- Then I will watch some one else. - I don’t think that I should like that either.

Pray, Mr. Montford, do not make these painful scenes of jealousy in public!

Lady Chiltern, will you come with us?

I want to talk to you about a great political and financial scheme,

about this Argentine Canal scheme, in fact.

What a tedious and practical subject for you to talk about!

Oh, I like tedious, practical subjects. What I don’t like are tedious, practical people.

Besides, you are interested, I know, in International Canal schemes.

You were Lord Radley’s secretary,

when the Government bought the Suez Canal shares?

Ah, but the Suez Canal was a very great and splendid undertaking.

This Argentine scheme is nothing but a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle.

A speculation, Sir Robert! A brilliant, daring speculation.

Believe me, Mrs. Cheveley, it is a swindle.

Let us call things by their proper names. It makes matters simpler.

We have all the information about it at the Foreign Office.

- I hope you have not invested in it. - I have invested very largely in it.

Who could have advised you to do such a foolish thing?

Your old friend — and mine. Baron Arnheim.

It was his last romance.

His last but one, to do him justice.

Oh, Mrs. Cheveley, I fear I have no advice to offer you,

except to interest yourself in something a little less dangerous.

The success of the Canal depends, of course, on the attitude of England,

and I am to lay my report before the House to-morrow night.

That you must not do, Sir Robert.

In your own interests, to say nothing of mine, you must not do that.

My own interests? My dear Mrs. Cheveley, what do you mean?

Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you.

I want you to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the House,

on the ground that you have reasons to believe that the Commissioners have been

prejudiced or misinformed, or something.

Then I want you to say a few words to the effect

that the Government is going to reconsider the question, and that you

have reason to believe

that the Canal, if completed, will be of great international value.

Will you do that for me?

Mrs. Cheveley, you cannot be serious in making me such a proposition!

Oh, but I am quite serious.

- Pray allow me to believe that you are not. - Ah! but I am. And if you do

what I ask you, I . . . will pay you very handsomely!

- Pay me! - Yes.

I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.

Oh, how disappointing!

And I have come all the way from Vienna in order that you should

thoroughly understand me.

I am afraid that I do not.

My dear Sir Robert, you are a man of the world,

and you have your price, I suppose.

Everybody has nowadays.

The only drawback is that most people are so dreadfully expensive.

I know I am.

I hope you will be more reasonable in your terms.

If you will allow me, I will call your carriage for you now.

You have lived abroad so long, Mrs. Cheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to a gentleman.

Wait! I realise that I am talking to a man who laid the foundation of his fortune

by selling to a Stock Exchange speculator a Cabinet secret.

- What do you mean? - I mean that I know the real origin

of your wealth and your career,

and I have got your letter, too.

- What letter? - The letter you wrote

to Baron Arnheim, when you were Lord Radley’s secretary,

telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares —

a letter written three days before

the Government announced its own purchase.

- It is not true. - You thought that letter had been destroyed.

How foolish of you! I have it in my possession.

The affair to which you allude was no more than a speculation.

The House of Commons had not yet passed the bill; it might have been rejected.

It was a swindle, Sir Robert.

Let us call things by their proper names. That makes matter simpler.

And now I am going to sell you that letter,

and the price I ask for it is your public support of the Argentine scheme.

- I cannot do what you ask me. - You mean you cannot help doing it.

It is not for you to make terms. It is for you to accept them.

- Supposing you refuse ... - What then?

My dear Sir Robert, what then?

You are ruined, that is all!

Suppose that when I leave this house I drive down to some newspaper office,

and give them this scandal and the proofs of it!

Think of their loathsome joy, of the delight they would have in dragging you down,

of the mud and mire they would plunge you in. - Stop!

You want me to withdraw the report and to make a short speech

stating that I think there are possibilities in the scheme?

Those are my terms.

I will give you any sum of money you want.

Even you are not rich enough, Sir Robert, to buy back your past.

No man is.

- Give me time to consider your proposal. - No; you must settle now!

- Give me a week — three days! - Impossible!

I have got to telegraph to Vienna to-night.

- I consent. - Thank you.

I knew we should come to an amicable agreement.

And now you may call my carriage for me.

I see that the people are coming up from supper.

Englishmen always get romantic after a meal, and that bores me dreadfully.

What a charming house you have, Lady Chiltern!

I have spent a delightful evening.

It has been so interesting getting to know your husband.

- Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs. Cheveley? - I will tell you.

I wanted to interest him in this Argentine Canal scheme,

of which I dare say you have heard.

I found him most susceptible, —

susceptible to reason, I mean.

A rare thing in a man. I converted him in ten minutes.

He is going to make a speech in the House to-morrow night in favour of the idea.

We must go to the Ladies’ Gallery and hear him! It will be a great occasion!

There must be some mistake. That scheme could never have my husband’s support.

Oh, I assure you it’s all settled. I don’t regret my tedious journey

from Vienna now. It has been a great success.

But, of course, for the next 24 hours the whole thing is a dead secret.

Secret? Between whom?

Between your husband and myself.

Your carriage is here, Mrs. Cheveley!

Thanks! Will you see me down, Sir Robert?

Now that we have both the same interests at heart

we shall be great friends, I hope!

Good-night, Lady Chiltern.

Mrs. Cheveley's carriage.

Good-night, Sir Robert.

Some one has dropped a diamond brooch!

Quite beautiful, isn’t it? I wonder to whom it belongs.

I wonder who dropped it.

- It is a beautiful brooch. - It is a very handsome bracelet.

- It isn’t a bracelet. It’s a brooch. - It may be used as a bracelet.

- What are you doing? - Miss Mabel,

I am going to make a rather strange request to you.

Oh, pray do! I have been waiting for it all the evening.

Don’t mention to anybody that I have taken charge of this brooch.

Should any one write and claim it, let me know at once.

That is a very strange request.

Well, you see I gave it to somebody once.

- You did? - Yes.

Then I shall certainly bid you good-night.

You saw whom Lady Markby brought here to-night?

Yes. It was an unpleasant surprise.

- What did she come here for? - Apparently hoping to lure

Robert to uphold some fraudulent scheme in which she is interested in.

- She has mistaken her man, hasn’t she? - She is incapable of understanding

an upright character like my husband’s!

Perfect. I fancy she came to grief if she tried to get Robert into her toils.

It is extraordinary what astounding mistakes clever women make.

I don’t call women of that kind clever. I call them stupid!

It is often the same thing. Good-night, Lady Chiltern!

Good-night!

Ah, my dear Arthur, you are not going already? Do stay a little!

I am afraid I can’t, thanks. I have promised to look in at the Hartlocks’. I believe

they have got a mauve Hungarian band that plays mauve Hungarian music.

I'll see you soon. Good-bye!

Put out the lights, Mason. - Very well, Sir Robert.

Robert,

it is not true, is it?

You are not going to give your support to this speculation?

- Who tell you I intended to do so? - Mrs. Cheveley, as she calls herself now.

She seemed to taunt me with it.

Robert, you don't know this woman. I do. We were at school together.

She was untruthful and dishonest. She was sent away for being a thief.

- Why do you let her influence you? - What you say me may be true, but it is best forgotten!

Have been many years ago. Mrs. Cheveley may have changed since then.

No one should be judged entirely by their past.

One’s past is what one is.

It is the only way by which people should be judged.

That is a hard saying. It is a true saying, Robert.

And what did she mean by boasting that she had got you to give your name, your support,

to a thing I have heard you describe as the most dishonest

and fraudulent scheme there has ever been in political life?

I was mistaken in the view I took, that's all.

We all may make mistakes.

I have reasons now to believe that the Commission was prejudiced,

or, at any rate, misinformed.

Besides, public and private life are two different things.

They should both represent man at his highest.

I see no difference between them.

In the present case, on a matter of practical politics,

I have changed my mind. That is all.

- All! - Yes!

It is horrible that I should have to ask you such a question —

are you telling me the whole truth?

- Why do you ask me such a question? - Why do you not answer it?

Truth is a very complex thing, Gertrude,

and politics is a very complex business.

One may be under certain obligations to people that one must pay.

Sooner or later in political life one must compromise.

Every one does.

Compromise?

Why do you talk so differently to-night from the way I have always heard you talk?

- Why are you changed? - I am not changed.

But circumstances alter things.

Supposing...

Supposing, that I would tell you that it was necessary,

vitally necessary? - It can never be necessary

to do what is not honourable.

- Why should it be? - You have no right to use that word

I tell you it was a matter of rational compromise, that's all.

That may be true for other men, but not for you. You are different.

To the world, as to myself, you have been an ideal always.

Be that ideal still.

Don’t kill my love for you,

don’t do that! - Gertrude...

Is there in your life any secret disgrace?

Tell me, tell me at once, that —

That our lives may drift apart. - Drift apart?

That they may be entirely separate. It would be better for us both.

There is nothing in my past life that you might not know.

I am sure of it.

You will write, won’t you, to Mrs. Cheveley, and tell her that you cannot support this scheme of hers?

- I might see her personally. It would be better. - You must never see her again. She is not a woman you

should ever speak to.

Write now, write this moment and let her understand

that your decision is irrevocable!

She must know that she has been mistaken in you.

Write that you can not support this business scheme.

Yes — write the word dishonest.

She knows what that word means.

That will do. And now the envelope.

Mary!

Give this letter to Mason and see it delivered at once.

There is no answer.

Robert, love gives one an instinct to things.

I feel to-night that I have saved you from something that might have been a danger to you,

I don’t think you realise that into the political life of our time

you have brought higher ideals —

and for that I love you.

Love me always.

My dear Robert, it’s a very awkward business, very awkward indeed.

You should have told your wife the whole thing.

No man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out.

Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything

except the obvious. - 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.

She would have turned from me in horror . . . in horror and in contempt.

Lady Chiltern is as perfect as all that?

Yes; my wife is as perfect as all that. - What a pity!

But if what you tell me is true, I'd like to have a serious talk

about life with Lady Chiltern.

It would be quite useless.

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 I had done a thing that I suppose

most men would call shameful and dishonourable?

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

Whom did I wrong by what I did? No one.

- Except yourself, Robert. - 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 of one’s youth,

should wreck a life like mine. Is it fair, Arthur?

Life is never fair, Robert.

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 weapon.

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.

Well, when I was old, perhaps. When I was tired, worn out, disappointed.

I wanted my success when I was young. I couldn’t wait.

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.

What first made you think of doing such a thing?

- Baron Arnheim. - That's scoundrel!

No; he was a man of a most subtle and refined intellect.

A man of culture, charm, and distinction.

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 evening 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.

And 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 later he wrote and asked me to come and see him.

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 loveliness of the luxury in which he lived;

and then told me that luxury was nothing but a background,

a painted scene in a play, and that power,

power over other men,

power over the world, is the one thing that really matters.

the one supreme pleasure worth having,

the one joy one never tired of,

and that in this century only the rich possessed it.

- A thoroughly shallow creed. - I didn’t think so then. I don’t think so now.

Wealth has given me enormous power.

At the very outset of my life it gave me freedom, and freedom is everything.

You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is.

You cannot realize 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?

Just as I was leaving he said to me that if ever I could give him any

any private information of real value

he would make me a very rich man.

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.

Weak? I am sick of hearing that phrase.

Sick of using it about others. Weak?

You really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation?

I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it takes strength,

strength and courage, to yield to.

To stake all one’s life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw,

there is no weakness in that.

It takes a horrible, a terrible courage.

I had that courage.

The same afternoon I sat down and wrote Baron Arnheim the letter this woman now holds.

He made three-quarters of a million over the transaction.

- And you? - I received from the Baron £110,000.

- You were worth more, Robert. - No; that money gave me exactly what I wanted,

power over others.

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

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

And I'll help you in whatever way I can. Of course you know that.

Thank you, Arthur.

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.

In England a man who can’t talk morality twice a week to a large, popular,

immoral audience is quite finished as a serious politician.

Well, a confession would be of no use. It would ruin you.

The only thing for me to do now is to fight the thing out.

I was waiting for you to say that. It is the only thing to do now. You must begin

by telling your wife the whole story. - No.

- That I will not do. - Robert, believe me, you are wrong.

I couldn’t do it.

It would kill her love for me.

And what about this woman, this Mrs. Cheveley.

- You knew her before, apparently. - Yes.

Did you know her well?

So little that I got engaged to be married to her once,

The affair lasted for three days . . . nearly.

Why was it broken off?

Oh, I forget. At least, it makes no matter.

By the way, did you try her with money yet?

She used to be confoundedly fond of money.

I offered her any sum she wanted. She refused.

Ah, the marvellous gospel of gold breaks down sometimes.

The rich can’t do everything, after all.

Perhaps, 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.

I shall send a cipher telegram to the Embassy at Vienna at once.

May be there is something known against her. Some secret scandal she is 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 think she adores scandals,

the sorrow of her life 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.

- Yes, she looks like a woman with a past, doesn’t she? - Most pretty women do.

There is a fashion in pasts just as there is a fashion in frocks.

Perhaps Mrs. Cheveley’s past is merely a little ... too revealing.

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

If she will find out, there would be little left to fight for.

You fight her ... in any case.

I am so glad we have met.

There is something I want to talk to you about.

You want to talk to me about Mrs. Cheveley?

You have guessed it.

After you left last night I found out that what she had said was quite 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

a stain on a career that has been stainless always.

Robert must be above reproach.

He cannot do what other men do.

Sure you agree with me? You are his greatest friend.

He has no secrets from me, and I am sure he has none 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 that I am right.

But speak to me quite frankly. - Quite frankly?

Surely. You have nothing to conceal?

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.

Of which I know nothing by experience, though I know something by observation.

I think that in practical life there is something about 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 he has to climb the crag, he will climb the crag;

if he has to walk in the mire — - Well?

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

generally about life. - I hope so.

Why are you looking at me so strangely?

Lady Chiltern, I have sometimes thought that . . . perhaps you are a little hard

in some of your views on life.

I think that sometimes you don’t make sufficient allowances.

In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness.

Supposing, for instance . . . any public figure,

my father, or Robert, say,

had, years ago, written a foolish letter to some one . . . - What do you mean by

foolish letter?

A letter gravely compromising one’s position. Of course

I am only putting an imaginary case.

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

Lady Chiltern...

if you are ever in trouble, trust me absolutely,

and I will help you in whatever way I can.

If you ever want me, come to me for my assistance, and you shall have it.

Come at once to me.

You are talking quite seriously.

I don’t think I ever heard you talk seriously before.

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

Lord Goring!

Good afternoon, Miss Mabel. - Good afternoon.

- Will you ride to-morrow ? - Yes, at ten.

- Sharp? - Quite sharp.

- Don’t forget. - Of course I shan’t.

What can you tell me about this, Mr. Conbertin?

I know it, of course. We sold it to you, but let me see...

8 years ago.

It's a special order, because of the hidden spring in the mechanism.

- A gift to your cousin, Lady of Berkshire, wasn't it? - Yes.

You quite sure it's the same piece?

Can't have the slightest doubt.

Here is our mark. - Thank you.

Yellow is the gay colour, is it not?

I used to wear yellow a great deal in my early days,

and would do so still 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?

Gertrude! Who, do you think, is coming to see you?

The dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in the most lovely dress.

Did you ask her?

Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me? It's impossible!

But I assure you she is coming to the door, as large as life and not nearly so natural.

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

But I must shake hands with Lady Markby. She is delightful.

Lady Markby. Mrs. Cheveley.

Dear Gertrude!

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

Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Cheveley? - Thank you.

Miss Chiltern, I thought your gown so charming last night,

so simple and suitable.

Really? I must tell my dressmaker. She will be so surprised.

Good-bye, Lady Markby! - You are remarkably modern, Mabel.

A little too modern, perhaps.

There's nothing so dangerous as being too modern.

One is apt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly.

What a dreadful prospect! - Ah! my dear, you need not be nervous.

You will always be as pretty as possible.

And that is the best fashion there is,

and the only fashion that England succeeds in setting.

Thank you, Lady Markby...

for England . . . and myself.

Goodbye.

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 ring for Mason to find out.

Pray don’t trouble. I dare say I lost it at the Opera, before we came on here.

Oh yes, of course it might have been at the Opera.

What sort of a brooch was it? - It was a diamond snake-brooch with a ruby in it,

a rather large ruby.

Mason, has a ruby and diamond brooch

been found here this morning? - No, my lady.

Oh, it really is of no consequence.

I am so sorry if I have put you to any inconvenience.

It has been no inconvenience.

That will do, Mason. You can bring tea.

Well, I must say it is most annoying to lose anything.

Will you have some tea, Mrs. Cheveley? - Thank you.

And you too, 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.

Very sad, very sad indeed.

And now, dear 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.

I hope Mrs. Cheveley will stay here a little longer.

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! - Good-bye, Lady Markby.

Wonderful woman, Lady Markby.

Talks more and says less than anybody I know.

She is made to be a public speaker.

I think it is only right that I should tell you quite frankly, Mrs. Cheveley,

that, had I known who you really were, I would not have invited you to my house last night.

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 action

may be guilty of it a second time, and should be shunned.

Would you apply that rule to every one?

To every one, without exception.

Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, I am

very sorry for you.

I am sure, you will see, that any further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is out of question?

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 him write that insolent letter to me?

It was you who made him break his promise? - Yes.

Then you must make him keep it. I give you until tonight — no more.

If by then 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 meets with like.

It is because your husband is himself fraudulent and dishonest that we pair so well together.

Between you and him there are chasms.

He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together.

The same sin binds us.

How . . .

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!

Look at him!

Can he deny it? Does he dare to?

You have done your worst. Now go.

Go at once. - I have not yet finished with you,

with either of you.

I give you both until tonight.

If by then you don’t do what I bid you to do,

the whole world shall know the origin of Robert Chiltern.

Sold a Cabinet secret for money!

You began your life with fraud! You built up your career on dishonour!

Tell me it is not true!

Lie to me!

What this woman said is quite true.

But, listen to me. Let me explain. Let me tell you the whole story. - Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me.

What a mask you have worn all these years!

You lied to the whole world.

And yet you will not lie to me. - Gertrude!

Don’t speak! Say nothing!

Your voice wakes terrible memories —

memories of things that made me love you —

words that made me love you.

You were to me something apart from the common life.

The world was a finer face because you were in it.

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.

Why can’t you women love us, faults and all?

When we men love women, we love them

knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections,

love them all the more, it may be, for that reason.

It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love.

Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are making

are false idols.

You made your false idol of me, and I had not

the courage to tell you my weaknesses.

I was afraid that I might lose your love,

as I have lost it now.

There seems to be great interest in the canal schemes, Robert.

I trust you, I want you, I am coming to you. Gertrude

She's discovered everything! Poor woman!

Phipps. - Yes, my lord.

There is a lady coming to see me this evening. When she arrives, show her straight into the drawing-room.

Yes, my lord. - It is a matter of the gravest importance, Phipps.

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

I understand, my lord.

That probably is the lady.

I'll see her myself. - Very good, my lord.

Well, sir? am I to wait attendance upon you?

Delighted to see you, father.

Take my cloak off. - Is it worth while, father?

Of course it is worth while.

Which is the most comfortable chair? That one, father.

It is the chair I use myself, when I have visitors.

Thank ye. No draught in this room, I hope? - No, father.

Glad to hear it. Can’t stand draughts.

No draughts at home. - Good many breezes, father.

Don’t understand what you mean.

I want to have a serious conversation with you, sir.

My dear father! At this hour?

What is your objection to the hour? I think the hour is an admirable hour!

Well, the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking seriously.

I am very sorry, but it is not my day. - What do you mean, sir?

During the Season, father, I only talk seriously

on the first Tuesday in every month, from four to seven.

Oh, make it Tuesday, call it Tuesday.

But it is after seven, father,

and my doctor says I must have no

serious conversation after seven.

It makes me talk in my sleep. - Talk in your sleep? What does that matter? You are not married.

No, father, I am not married.

That is what I have come to talk to you about.

You have got to get married,

and at once.

Why, when I was your age, 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 no longer fashionable. Too much is known about them.

They are a damaged lot. You got to get a wife.

Now, look where your friend Robert Chiltern has got

by probity and 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?

Yes father, I think I will. - I hope you will. Then I should be happy.

At present I make your mother’s life miserable on your account.

You are heartless, sir, quite heartless. - Oh, I hope not, father.

And it is high time for you to get married. You are thirty-four years.

And there is a draught in this room, which makes your conduct worse.

Why did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I feel it distinctly.

So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught.

I will come and see you to-morrow. We'll discuss anything you like. Let me

help you on with your cloak. - No, sir; I came here with a set purpose,

and I mean to see it through at all costs to my health or yours.

Let's go in the other room, father. It's a wonderful fire there.

Your sneezes are quite heartrending, father.

What? I suppose I can sneeze when I choose?

Quite so, father. I was merely expressing sympathy.

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

I quite agree with you, father. If there was less sympathy in the world

there would be less trouble in the world.

That is a paradox, sir. I hate paradoxes.

So do I, father.

Everybody one meets is a paradox nowadays. It is a great bore.

It makes society so obvious.

Do you really understand what you say?

Yes, father, if I listen attentively.

If you listen attentively! . . . Conceited young puppy!

Wait.

Good evening, madam.

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

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

His lordship will come to you there.

Lord Goring expects me? - Yes, madam.

Are you quite sure?

His lordship told me that if a lady called

I was to ask her to wait in the drawing-room.

His lordship’s directions on the subject were very precise.

How thoughtful of him! To expect the unexpected

shows a thoroughly modern intellect.

Oh, not that lamp. It is far too glaring. Light some candles.

Certainly, madam.

I hope the candles have very becoming shades.

We have had no complaints about them, madam,

as yet.

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.

Wonder what his correspondence is like.

Cards, bills, debts, dowagers!

What an uninteresting correspondence!

Who on earth writes to him on pink paper?

Oh, silly to write on pink paper!

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.

I know that handwriting.

It's Gertrude Chiltern’s.

Oh, 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!

‘I trust you. I want you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.’

‘I trust you. I want you.

I am coming to you. Gertrude.’

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

Thank you. - I trust the shades will be

to your liking.

They are the most becoming that we have.

They are the same as his lordship uses himself when he is dressing for dinner.

Then I am sure they will be perfectly right. - Thank you, madam.

Nonsense, sir!

I tell you, you've got to get married.

You are a conceited idiot.

That's all, sir.

I won't hear it.

My dear father, surely if I am to be married, you will allow me to choose the time,

the place, and the person?

Particularly the person.

It is I who should be consulted, sir, not you.

There is property at stake. It is not a matter for affection.

Affection comes later on in married life.

Yes. In married life affection comes when people

thoroughly dislike each other, father, doesn’t it?

Certainly, sir. I mean certainly not, sir.

You are talking very foolishly to-night.

What I say is - marriage is a matter for common sense.

But women who have common sense are so curiously plain, father, aren’t they?

Of course I only speak from hearsay. - No woman, plain or pretty,

has any common sense at all.

Common sense is the privilege of our sex. - Quite so, father.

And we men are so self-sacrificing that we never use it, do we?

I use it. I use nothing else. - So mother tells me.

It is the secret of your mother’s happiness.

You are very heartless, sir,

very heartless. - Oh, I hope not, father.

You ought to be in bed. - Yes, father.

You keep too late hours. - Yes, father.

Good night, father.

Mason, I've changed my mind. I shall not be going out.

You may send the carriage away. - Very well, my lady.

Arthur!

My dear Arthur, what a piece of good luck finding you on the doorstep!

Yes...

The fact is, Robert, I am horribly busy to-night,

I gave orders I was not at home to anybody.

Even my father had a comparatively cold reception.

He complained of a draught the whole time. - No, you must be at home to me, Arthur.

Perhaps by the morrow you will be the only friend on Earth.

My wife has discovered everything.

I guessed as much! - How?

Oh, merely by something in the expression of your face.

Who told her? - Mrs. Cheveley herself.

Now she knows that I began my career with an act of dishonesty.

You have nothing from Vienna yet? - Nothing is known against her.

I don’t know what to do, Arthur.

I can trust you absolutely, can’t I? - Yes, of course.

Oh! Phipps. - Yes, my lord.

Excuse me, Robert.

Phipps, 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?

Lady is in that room, my lord.

You told me to show her into that room, my lord.

You did perfectly right.

Tell me what I should do, Arthur.

My whole life seems to . . . crumbled about me since she's found me out.

Has she never in her life done some folly —

some indiscretion — that she should not forgive you?

She does not know what weakness and temptation are.

I love her more than anything in the world.

She will forgive you.

Perhaps at this very moment she is forgiving you.

She loves you, Robert. Why should not she forgive you?

I hope so.

I am sorry, Robert. You don't mind my sending you away, do you?

No, I must stay five more minutes. There is something else I have to tell you.

I've made up my mind.

I've made up my mind what I am going to say in the House of Commons to-night.

The question on the Argentine Canal scheme will be out about eleven o'clock.

Who was that? - Nothing.

I heard a chair fall in the near room. Some one has been listening.

There is no one there.

There is some one there. Arthur, what does this mean?

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

Sit down, Robert.

You give me your word that there is no one there? - Yes.

Your word of honour?

Yes.

Let me see for myself.

This must stop. I have told you that there is no one in that room —

that is enough. - That is not enough. I insist on going in that room.

You've said that there is no one there, so what reason have you for refusing me?

For God’s sake, don’t!

There is some one in that room. Some one you must not see.

I thought so!

I forbid you to enter that room.

What explanation have you to give me for her presence here?

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.

You are mad. What have I to do with her intrigues with you?

You are well suited to each other. - It is not true, Robert.

In her presence and in yours I will explain everything.

You have lied enough upon your word of honour.

Good evening, Lord Goring!

Great heavens! Mrs. Cheveley!

May I ask what you were doing in my drawing-room?

Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for listening through keyholes.

One always hears such wonderful things through them.

Doesn’t that sound rather like tempting Providence?

Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this time.

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

Oh! pray don’t. One should never give a woman

anything that she can’t wear in the evening.

You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern’s letter, haven’t you?

To offer it to you on conditions.

How did you guess that? - Because you haven’t mentioned the subject.

Have you got it with you? - Oh, no!

A well-made dress has no pockets.

What is your price for it?

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. -What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley?

Why don’t you call me Laura?

I don’t like the name. - You used to adore it. - Yes:

that’s why. - Arthur...

you loved me once. - Yes.

And you asked me to be your wife. - That was the natural result of my loving you.

And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw, poor old Lord Mortlake

trying to have a violent flirtation with me.

I am under the impression my lawyer settled that matter with you

on certain terms . . .

dictated by yourself.

At that time I was poor;

you were rich.

Quite so.

That is why you pretended to love me.

Well, you were silly, Arthur.

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 know any one at all morally responsible for what

he or she does at an English country house.

Yes. I know quite lot of people think that.

I loved you, Arthur. - Dear Mrs. Cheveley,

you've always been far too clever a woman to know anything about love.

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?

Yes: anything except that.

I am tired of living abroad. I want to live in 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 could be quite civilised.

Besides, I have arrived at the romantic stage.

Last night when I saw you at the Chilterns’, I knew

you were the only person I ever ready care for after,

if I ever have cared for anyone.

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. - Now?

To-morrow. - Are you quite serious?

Yes, quite serious.

I should make you a very bad husband. - I don’t mind bad husbands.

I have had two. They amused me immensely.

You mean you amused yourself immensely, don’t you?

What do you know about my married life?

Nothing: but I can read it like a book.

What book? - The Book of Numbers.

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

In the case of very fascinating woman,

sex is a challenge, not a defence.

I suppose that is meant as a compliment.

But, my dear Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments.

Men always are.

That is the difference between the two sexes.

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

Then you are going to allow your 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.

Oh! I do that in any case.

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.

As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern!

You seem to forget. I know his real character.

What you know about Robert Chiltern is not his real character.

The act of folly done in his youth, not his true character.

- How you men stand up for each other! - How you women war against each other!

I only war against one woman, against Gertrude Chiltern.

I hate her. I hate her now more than ever.

Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life?

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.

Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which you allude.

A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters

never knows much about anything.

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. That's all.

You mustn’t do that. It would be horrible.

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.

Well I must be going.

Good-bye.

Won’t you shake hands?

You came here to-night to talk about love, you to whom the thing is a book

closely sealed,

You 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.

That was horrible. That I cannot forgive you.

But you are unjust to me, Arthur. Believe me, you are quite unjust to me.

I didn’t go to taunt Gertrude at all.

I called with Lady Markby simply to ask whether a jewel,

that I lost somewhere last night, had been found at the Chilterns’.

A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby? - Yes. How do you know?

Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself.

It is in this drawer.

I foolishly forgot to tell the butler anything about it before I left.

Is it this ornament? - Yes.

I am so glad to get it back.

It was a present. - Oh.

Won’t you wear it?

Yes, if you pin it in.

Why do you put it on as a bracelet?

I never knew it could he worn as a bracelet.

Really? - No;

but it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn’t it?

Yes; much better than when I saw it last.

When did you see it last? - Oh, ten years ago,

on Lady Berkshire,

from whom you stole it.

What do you mean?

I mean you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary Berkshire, to whom I gave it as a wedding present.

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've found her now, and I've heard her own confession.

That is not true.

Oh, you know it is true.

Why, thief is written across your face at this minute.

I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end.

I'll say that I never saw this wretched thing before, that it was never in my possession.

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.

You brute! You coward!

Oh! don’t use big words. They mean so little.

What are you going to do? - I am going to ring for my servant.

He is an admirable servant. Always comes in the moment one calls for him.

When he comes I will tell him to fetch the police.

The police? What for?

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

Don’t do that. I will do anything you want.

Anything in the world you want.

Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.

Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think. - Give me Robert Chiltern’s letter.

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

You know you are lying. Give it to me at once.

This is it?

For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley,

you have moments of admirable common sense.

I congratulate you.

Please get me a glass of water. - Certainly.

No, thanks.

Help me on with my cloak? - With pleasure.

Mr. Watkins.

I beg to ask The Chancellor of the Exchequer a question.

The question which I've given in private notice.

Can the honourable gentleman see his way in some reduction

of the uniform rate of income tax? Eight pence in the pound

is viewed as a crippling effect on the industry.

Reply of the hon. Member:

I regret but the hon. Member can't anticipate my Budget statement.

Where is Sir Robert, Montford? - In The House, Lord Goring.

I must see him for five seconds. It's a matter of vital importance.

I am sorry, but you have to wait for him to finish his speech.

I wonder, what he is going to say.

Colonel Hartley.

I beg to ask the undersecretary of state for Foreign Affairs

a question that I have given him in private notice . . .

can he now make a statement on the goverment's policy

as to the Argentine Canal scheme?

In reply to the honourable and gallant Member, I have a following statement to make:

I am laying on the table of The House the report of the Special Comission's

inquiry to the importance and the present state

of the Argentine Canal scheme.

Her Majesty's Government are in entire agreement with the findings of The Commission

and have come to the conclusion

that the Argentine Canal scheme can

in no way be supported by Her Majesty's Government.

Is the honourable gentleman aware that this scheme has been received

with considerable support in many quarters?

And is it not effect that the members of the Commission were unduly biased against it?

No, sir. Her Majesty's Government are in entire agreement with the findings of The Commission.

Perhaps the House would expect to hear something about the principles involved,

and then to enlarge the whole application of those principles

to this special case.

As to the principles . . .

political finance is not necessary a woe.

The Suez Canal was a great and splendid undertaking.

It gave us our direct route to India. It had imperial value.

It was necessary that we should have control.

This Argentine Canal scheme

is nothing but a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle.

To say that it was a mere Stock Exchange speculation

would be to treated with him proper leniency.

The promoters of this scheme have managed to mobilize

considerable forces for its success.

They have sought to influence public opinion.

They've brought pressure to bear on all those who is responsible for public expenditure.

They have thoroughly misunderstood the way of British public life.

Now and in the future the law of conduct of British public life will be

as The Prime Minister said would be threatened with assassination.

"I shall make my will and I will do my duty".

We have made our will and we shall do our duty. - Hear! Hear!

I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern again.

Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley.

Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn’t.

On the contrary, I am going to render him a great service.

I am charmed to hear it.

It is a reformation. - Yes.

I can’t bear so upright a gentleman, being so shamefully deceived,

and so — - Well?

I find that somehow Gertrude’s dying speech and confession has

strayed into my pocket.

What do you mean? - I mean that I'll send Robert Chiltern

the love-letter his wife wrote to you to-night.

Love-letter?

‘I trust you, I want you, I am coming to you.’

Why don’t you propose to that pretty Mabel Chiltern?

I am of a very nervous disposition, father, especially in the morning.

Oh, I don’t suppose there is the smallest chance of her accepting you.

I don’t know how the betting stands to-day.

If she did, she'd be the prettiest fool in England.

That is just what I'd like to marry.

A thoroughly sensible wife would reduce me to a state of complete lunacy in less than six months.

You don’t deserve her, sir. - Oh, my dear father,

if we men married the women we deserved, we would have

a very bad time of it.

How do you do, Lord Caversham?

Ah, good morning. I hope Lady Caversham is quite well?

Lady Caversham is as usual, as usual.

Good morning, Miss Mabel! - And Lady Caversham’s bonnets . . .

are they at all better?

I regret to say, my wife's bonnets have suffered of a serious relapse.

Good morning, Miss Mabel!

I hope an operation will not be necessary.

Good morning, Miss Mabel!

Oh, are you here?

Of course you understand that after breaking your appointment

I shall never speak to you again.

Oh, please don’t say that. You are the only woman in London

I really like to have to listen to me.

Do you think you could make your son behave a little better occasionally?

Just as a change.

I regret to say, I have no influence at all over my son.

If I had, I know what I would make him do.

I am afraid that he has one of those terribly weak natures that are not susceptible to influence.

He is very heartless,

very heartless. - It seems to me I am a little in the way here.

It is good for you to be in the way,

and to know what people say of you behind your back.

I don’t at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited.

After that, my dear, I must really bid you good morning.

You are not going to leave me all alone with Lord Goring?

Especially at such an early hour in the day.

I can’t take him to Downing Street.

It is not the Prime Minister’s day for seeing the . . . unemployed.

I am sorry, sir. This is a private letter.

I opened it by mistake.

‘I trust you, I want you, I am coming to you, Gertrude’

Darling!

This letter of yours makes me feel that nothing the world

may do can hurt me now.

I don't care what disgrace is in store for me, as only as you love me still.

There is no disgrace in store for you.

Mrs. Cheveley has handed back to Lord Goring the document that was in her possession.

He's brought it here this morning.

Then I am safe!

What a wonderful thing to be safe!

Two days I've been in terror.

How many men would like to see their past burning to ashes before them!

You've made that speech last night thinking it might be a public disgrace.

But it's not been so. Public honour has been the result.

I think so. I fear so, almost.

For though I am safe from detection,

I suppose I should retire from public life?

I suppose you should. It is your duty.

It is much to surrender. - It is much to gain.

And you would be happy living with me alone, abroad . . .

or in the country maybe . . .

away from London, away from public life?

You would have no regrets? - No.

And your ambition for me? - Oh, my ambition!

I have none but we may love each other.

Let us not talk about ambition.

Quite right, quite right.

Very good!

Good.

Good morning, Lady Chiltern. - Good morning.

Warmest congratulations, Robert, on your brilliant speech last night.

I've just left the Prime Minister,

you are to have the vacant seat in the Cabinet.

A seat in the Cabinet? - Certainly, and you well deserve it.

You've got what we need so much nowadays in political life —

high character, high moral tone, high principles.

Those are the very words in The Times leader this morning.

I cannot accept this offer, Lord Caversham. I have to decline it.

You . . . decline it.?

My intention is to retire at once from public life.

Decline a seat in the Cabinet, and retire from public life?

I Never heard such damned nonsense in the whole course of my existence, confound it.

I beg your pardon, Lady Chiltern. I beg your pardon, Robert.

I . . .

Lady Chiltern, you are a sensible woman,

the most sensible woman I know. Will you

kindly prevent your husband from making such a, such a . . .

from taking such . . .

Will you kindly do that, Lady Chiltern?

I think he's right in his determination. I approve of it.

You approve of it?

Good heavens!

Ah, seems to me, nothing I can do, except

go back and tell The Prime Minister.

Good day, Lady Chiltern. Good day, Robert.

Something wrong. Something wrong.

What is the matter with this family?

Idiocy!

Hereditary, I suppose. Both of them, too.

Wife as well as husband.

And they are not an old family. Can’t understand it.

Miss Mabel, I have something very particular to say to you.

Is it a proposal? - Well, yes, it is —

I am bound to say it is. - I am so glad. It's the second to-day.

The second to-day? What conceited ass has been impertinent

to dare to propose to you before I had proposed to you?

Tommy Trafford, of course. It is one of Tommy’s days for proposing.

Oh! bother Tommy Trafford. Tommy is a silly little ass.

I love you.

I know. And I think you might have mentioned it before.

Mabel, do be serious. Please be serious.

That is the sort of thing that a man says to a girl before he has been married to her.

Never says it afterwards.

Mabel, I have told you that I loved you. Can’t you love me a little in return?

If you knew anything about . . . anything, which you don’t,

you'd know that I adore you.

The whole of London knows it except you.

I've been going around for six months telling the whole of society that I adore you.

It's a wonder you consent to speak to me.

I have no character left at all.

At least, I feel so happy that I am sure I have no character left at all.

Darling! Do you know I was awfully afraid of being refused!

I’m not nearly good enough for you.

I am so glad. I was afraid you were.

Oh. That admirable father of mine really makes a habit of turning up at the wrong moment.

Very heartless of him, very heartless indeed.

I should be back home in 15 minutes.

Don’t get into any temptations while I am away.

When you are away, there are none. It makes me horribly dependent on you.

Arthur! Chiltern wants to retire from public life.

His wife agreed. What's the matter with that family?

Something wrong there, eh?

Idiocy, I say you. - No, father.

It is not idiocy, I assure you.

It is what is called nowadays a high moral tone.

No, I hate these new-fangled names.

It was what we used to call idiocy fifty years ago.

Well, I have to go to tell Prime Minister.

Wait a minute, father, you have to come to Chilterns with me.

What for? - Eh...

There's someone I'd like you to talk to.

What about? - About me, father.

Not a subject about which much eloquence is possible.

No, father; the lady is like me.

She doesn’t care much for eloquence in others.

She finds it . . . a little loud.

When you told me this morning that Mrs. Cheveley had stolen

the letter that I wrote you and sent it to my husband,

I tried to intercept it, but it was too late.

Fortunately, the brilliant Mrs. Cheveley does not seem to have noticed

that there was no name at the beginning of it.

Robert thought that I had written it to him.

I have no courage to tell him truth.

Sometimes it takes more courage not to tell the truth.

I have never lied to him before.

I am getting to understand many things.

Why you play Mrs. Cheveley’s cards?

I don’t understand you.

Mrs. Cheveley made an attempt to ruin your husband.

Why should you do him the wrong she tried to do and failed?

What sort of existence will he have if you close the doors of public life against him.

He was made for success.

But it is my husband himself who wishes to retire from public life.

He said so first.

But rather than lose your love, Robert would do anything.

Take my advice, Lady Chiltern,

and do not accept a sacrifice so great.

If you do, you'll live to regret it bitterly.

You are right.

I am delighted you changed your mind, Robert, delighted.

If the country doesn’t go to the dogs or the Radicals,

we'll have you Prime Minister, some day.

You got a great future before you.

Wish I could say the same thing about you, sir.

But your future will have to be entirely domestic.

Yes, father, I prefer it domestic.

And if you don’t make this young lady an ideal husband, I’ll cut you off with a shilling.

An ideal husband! I don’t think I should like that.

It sounds like something in the next world.

Then what do you want him to be then, my dear?

He can be what he chooses.

All I want is to be a real wife to him.

There is a good deal of common sense about that.

Stop.

My dear Duke. - Ah, dear Mrs. Cheveley!

What surprise, I've not seen you since Vienna.

Not since Vienna.

And you are younger and more beautiful than ever. How do you manage it?

By making it a rule only to talk to perfectly

charming people like yourself.

Everybody knows how brilliant you are, Mrs. Cheveley.

Thank you, Duke. A meeting

that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship.

It starts in the right manner.

Won't you accompany me?

Very gladly indeed, Mrs. Cheveley.

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