Dorian. I will arrange your music, Aunt Augusta. I know all about music. I have an extraordinary collection of musical instruments. I give curious concerts every Wednesday in a long latticed room, where wild gipsies tear mad music from little zithers, and I have brown Algerians who beat monotonously upon copper drums. Besides, I have set myself to music. And it has not marred me. I am still the same. More so, if anything.
Cicely. Shall you like dining at Willis's with Mr. Dorian to-night, Cousin Algy?
Algy (evasively). It's much nicer being here with you, Cousin Cicely.
Aunt Augusta. Sweet child! I see distinct social probabilities in her profile. Mr. Dorian has a beautiful nature. And it is such a blessing to think that he was not brought up in a handbag, like so many young men of the present day.
Algy. It is such a blessing, Aunt Augusta, that a woman always grows exactly like her aunt. It is such a curse that a man never grows exactly like his uncle. It is the greatest tragedy of modern life.
Dorian. To be really modern one should have no soul. To be really mediæval one should have no cigarettes. To be really Greek——
[The Duke of Berwick rises in a marked manner, and leaves the garden.
Cicely (writes in her diary, and then reads aloud dreamily). "The Duke of Berwick rose in a marked manner, and left the garden. The weather continues charming." ...