Why, when I was your
age, sir, I had been an inconsolable widower for three months, and
was already paying my addresses to your admirable mother. Damme,
sir, it is your duty to get married. You can't be always living for
pleasure. Every man of position is married nowadays. Bachelors are
not fashionable any more. They are a damaged lot. Too much is known
about them. You must get a wife, sir. Look where your friend Robert
Chiltern has got to by probity, hard work, and a sensible marriage
with a good woman. Why don't you imitate him, sir? Why don't you
take him for your model?
LORD GORING. I think I shall, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I wish you would, sir. Then I should be happy. At
present I make your mother's life miserable on your account. You are
heartless, sir, quite heartless
LORD GORING. I hope not, father.
LORD CAVERSHAM. And it is high time for you to get married. You are
thirty-four years of age, sir.
LORD GORING. Yes, father, but I only admit to thirty-two - thirty-
one and a half when I have a really good buttonhole. This buttonhole
is not . . . trivial enough.
LORD CAVERSHAM. I tell you you are thirty-four, sir. And there is a
draught in your room, besides, which makes your conduct worse. Why
did you tell me there was no draught, sir? I feel a draught, sir, I
feel it distinctly.
LORD GORING. So do I, father. It is a dreadful draught.
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