Act I - Page 2

clothes. How to
get him out of them? It would require a cataclysm. To be an indoor
servant at all is to Crichton a badge of honour; to be a butler at
thirty is the realisation of his proudest ambitions. He is devotedly
attached to his master, who, in his opinion, has but one fault, he
is not sufficiently contemptuous of his inferiors. We are
immediately to be introduced to this solitary failing of a great
English peer.

This perfect butler, then, opens a door, and ushers Ernest into a
certain room. At the same moment the curtain rises on this room, and
the play begins.

It is one of several reception-rooms in Loam House, not the most
magnificent but quite the softest; and of a warm afternoon all that
those who are anybody crave for is the softest. The larger rooms are
magnificent and bare, carpetless, so that it is an accomplishment to
keep one's feet on them; they are sometimes lent for charitable
purposes; they are also all in use on the night of a dinner-party,
when you may find yourself alone in one, having taken a wrong
turning; or alone, save for two others who are within hailing
distance.

This room, however, is comparatively small and very soft. There are
so many cushions in it that you wonder why, if you are an outsider
and don't know that, it needs six cushions to make one fair head
comfy. The couches themselves are cushions as large as beds, and
there is an art of sinking into them and of waiting to be helped out
of them. There are several famous paintings on the walls, of which
you may say 'Jolly thing that,' without losing caste as knowing too
much; and in cases there are glorious miniatures, but the daughters
of the house cannot tell you of whom; 'there is a catalogue
somewhere.' There are a thousand or so of roses in basins, several
library novels, and a row of weekly illustrated newspapers lying
against each other like fallen soldiers. If any one disturbs this
row Crichton seems to know of it from afar and appears noiselessly
and replaces the wanderer. One thing unexpected in such a room is a
great array of tea things. Ernest spots them with a twinkle, and has
his epigram at once unsheathed. He dallies, however, before
delivering the thrust.

ERNEST. I perceive, from the tea cups, Crichton, that the great
function is to take place here.

CRICHTON (with a respectful sigh). Yes, sir.

ERNEST (chuckling heartlessly). The servants' hall coming up to have
tea in the drawing-room! (With terrible sarcasm.) No wonder you look
happy, Crichton.

CRICHTON (under the knife). No, sir.

ERNEST. Do you know, Crichton, I think that with an effort you might
look even happier. (CRICHTON smiles wanly.) You don't approve of his
lordship's compelling