D. Julian. But who understands all this? How are these interior ravages manifested? Who recounts them to the audience? In what way are they evident? Must we spend a whole evening hunting for a glance, a sigh, a gesture, a single word? My dear boy, this is not amusement. To cast us into such depths is to hurl us upon philosophy.
Ernest. You but echo my own thought.
D. Julian. I have no wish to discourage you. You best know what you are about—there. Though the play seems rather colourless, heavy, uninteresting, perhaps if the dénoûment is sensational—and the explosion—eh?
Ernest. Sensation! Explosion! Hardly, and that only just upon the fall of the curtain.
D. Julian. Which means that the play begins when the curtain falls?
Ernest. I am inclined to admit it. But I will endeavour to give it a little warmth.
D. Julian. My dear lad, what you have to do is to write the second play, the one that begins where the first ends. For the other, according to your description, would be difficult to write, and is not worth the trouble.
Ernest. 'Tis the conclusion I have come to myself.
D. Julian. Then we agree, thanks to your skill and logic. And what is the name?
Ernest. That's another difficulty. I can find none.