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Tommy really
does nothing but propose to me. He proposed to me last night in the
music-room, when I was quite unprotected, as there was an elaborate
trio going on. I didn't dare to make the smallest repartee, I need
hardly tell you. If I had, it would have stopped the music at once.
Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to
be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be
absolutely deaf. Then he proposed to me in broad daylight this
morning, in front of that dreadful statue of Achilles. Really, the
things that go on in front of that work of art are quite appalling.
The police should interfere. At luncheon I saw by the glare in his
eye that he was going to propose again, and I just managed to check
him in time by assuring him that I was a bimetallist. Fortunately I
don't know what bimetallism means. And I don't believe anybody else
does either. But the observation crushed Tommy for ten minutes. He
looked quite shocked. And then Tommy is so annoying in the way he
proposes. If he proposed at the top of his voice, I should not mind
so much. That might produce some effect on the public. But he does
it in a horrid confidential way. When Tommy wants to be romantic he
talks to one just like a doctor. I am very fond of Tommy, but his
methods of proposing are quite out of date. I wish, Gertrude, you
would speak to him, and tell him that once a week is quite often
enough to propose to any one, and that it should always be done in a
manner that attracts some attention.

LADY CHILTERN. Dear Mabel, don't talk like that. Besides, Robert
thinks very highly of Mr. Trafford. He believes he has a brilliant
future before him.

MABEL CHILTERN. Oh! I wouldn't marry a man with a future before him
for anything under the sun.

LADY CHILTERN. Mabel!

MABEL CHILTERN. I know, dear. You married a man with a future,
didn't you? But then Robert was a genius, and you have a noble,
self-sacrificing character. You can stand geniuses. I have no,
character at all, and Robert is the only genius I could ever bear.
As a rule, I think they are quite impossible. Geniuses talk so much,
don't they? Such a bad habit! And they are always thinking about
themselves, when I want them to be thinking about me. I must go
round now and rehearse at Lady Basildon's. You remember, we are
having tableaux, don't you? The Triumph of something, I don't know
what! I hope it will be triumph of me. Only triumph I am really
interested in at present. [Kisses LADY CHILTERN and goes out; then
comes running back.] Oh, Gertrude, do you know who is coming to see
you? That dreadful Mrs. Cheveley, in a most lovely gown. Did you
ask her?

LADY CHILTERN. [Rising.] Mrs. Cheveley! Coming to see me?
Impossible!

MABEL CHILTERN. I assure you she is coming upstairs, as large as
life and not nearly so natural.

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