Lord Goring. Yes. It is perfectly comic, the number of young men going about the world nowadays who adopt perfect profiles as a useful profession.
Lord Illingworth. Surely that must be the next world? How about the Chiltern Thousands?
Lord Goring. Don't. George. Have you seen Windermere lately? Dear Windermere! I should like to be exactly unlike Windermere.
Lord Illingworth. Poor Windermere! He spends his mornings in doing what is possible, and his evenings in saying what is probable. By the way, do you really understand all I say?
Lord Goring. Yes, when I don't listen attentively.
Lord Illingworth. Reach me the matches, like a good boy—thanks. Now—define these cigarettes—as tobacco.
Lord Goring. My dear George, they are atrocious. And they leave me unsatisfied.
Lord Illingworth. You are a promising disciple of mine. The only use of a disciple is that at the moment of one's triumph he stands behind one's chair and shouts that after all he is immortal.
Lord Goring. You are quite right. It is as well, too, to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be learnt.
Lord Illingworth. Certainly, and ugliness is the root of all industry.