Jack._Yes,_I_know_it_is._But_supposing_it_was_something_else_Do_you_mean_to_say_you_couldn’t_love_me_then_Gwendolen.'>Jack.
Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean
to say you couldn’t love me then?
Gwendolen.
[Glibly.] Ah! that is clearly
a metaphysical speculation, and like
most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual
facts of real life, as we know them.
Jack.
Personally, darling, to
speak quite candidly, I don’t much care about
the name of Ernest . . . I don’t think the name suits me at all.
Gwendolen.
It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name.
It has a music of its
own. It produces vibrations.
Jack.
Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of other
much nicer names.
I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.
Gwendolen.
Jack? . . . No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at
all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations . . . I have
known several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than
usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity
any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably never
be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment’s
solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.
Jack.
Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get
married at once. There is no time to be lost.
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