The Importance of Being Earnest

Cecily.
My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the arduous 
task of looking after me. 
Gwendolen.
Your guardian? 
Cecily.
Yes, I am Mr. Worthing’s ward. 
Gwendolen.
Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a 
ward. How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not 
sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed 
delight. [Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of you, Cecily; I have liked 
you ever since I met you! But I am bound to state that now that I know that 
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you are Mr. Worthing’s ward, I cannot help expressing a wish you were—
well, just a little older than you seem to be—and not quite so very alluring in 
appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly— 
Cecily._Pray_do!_I_think_that_whenever_one_has_anything_unpleasant_to_say,_one_should_always_be_quite_candid._Gwendolen.'>Cecily.
Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say, 
one should always be quite candid. 
Gwendolen.
Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you 
were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest has a 
strong upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour. Disloyalty 
would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of the noblest 
possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence of the 
physical charms of others. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us 
with many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so, 
indeed, History would be quite unreadable. 
Cecily.
I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest? 
Gwendolen. Yes. 
Cecily.
Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is his 
brother—his elder brother. 
Gwendolen.
[Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me that he 
had a brother.