Evelyn. How can you say that?
Cecil. I didn't. Carlyle did.
Evelyn. I don't believe he said anything of the kind. And I don't believe ducks are clever one bit. They don't look clever.
Cecil. That's part of their cleverness. In this world if one is wise one should look like a fool. It puts people off their guard. That's what the duck does.
Evelyn. Well, I think ducks are horrid, and cuckoos, too. And I believe most birds like bringing up their chickens and feeding them and looking after them.
Cecil. They do. That's the extraordinary part of it. They spend their whole lives building nests and laying eggs and hatching them. And when the chickens come out the father has to fuss round finding worms. And the nest's abominably over-crowded and the babies are perpetually squalling, and that drives the husband to the public house, and it's all as uncomfortable as the Devil—
Evelyn. Mr. Harburton!
Cecil. Well, I shouldn't like it. In fact, I call it fatuous.
[Evelyn is leaning forward pondering this philosophy with a slightly puckered brow—a slight pause]. I say, you don't look a bit comfortable like that. Lean back against the tree. It's a first-rate tree. That's why I chose it.
Evelyn [tries and fails]. I can't. My hat gets in the way.