Lady Windermere. You gave her the money to do it, which is the same thing.
Lord Windermere. Margaret, as far as I have known Mrs. Erlynne—
Lady Windermere. Is there a Mr. Erlynne—or is he a myth?
Lord Windermere. Her husband died many years ago. She is alone in the world.
Lady Windermere. No relations? [A pause.]
Lord Windermere. None.
Lady Windermere. Rather curious, isn’t it? [L.]
Lord Windermere. [L.C.] Margaret, I was saying to you—and I beg you to listen to me—that as far as I have known Mrs. Erlynne, she has conducted herself well. If years ago—
Lady Windermere. Oh! [Crossing R.C.] I don’t want details about her life!
Lord Windermere. [C.] I am not going to give you any details about her life. I tell you simply this—Mrs. Erlynne was once honoured, loved, respected. She was well born, she had position—she lost everything—threw it away, if you like. That makes it all the more bitter. Misfortunes one can endure—they come from outside, they are accidents. But to suffer for one’s own faults—ah!—there is the sting of life. It was twenty years ago, too. She was little more than a girl then. She had been a wife for even less time than you have.