DORA. Dont fret, old dear. Rudolph will teach me high-class manners.
I call it quite a happy ending: dont you, lieutenant?
DUVALLET. In France it would be impossible. But here--ah! [kissing
his hand] la belle Angleterre!
EPILOGUE
_Before the curtain. The Count, dazed and agitated, hurries to the 4
critics, as they rise, bored and weary, from their seats._
THE COUNT. Gentlemen: do not speak to me. I implore you to withhold
your opinion. I am not strong enough to bear it. I could never have
believed it. Is this a play? Is this in any sense of the word, Art?
Is it agreeable? Can it conceivably do good to any human being? Is
it delicate? Do such people really exist? Excuse me, gentlemen: I
speak from a wounded heart. There are private reasons for my
discomposure. This play implies obscure, unjust, unkind reproaches
and menaces to all of us who are parents.
TROTTER. Pooh! you take it too seriously. After all, the thing has
amusing passages. Dismiss the rest as impertinence.
THE COUNT. Mr Trotter: it is easy for you to play the pococurantist.
[Trotter, amazed, repeats the first three syllables in his throat,
making a noise like a pheasant]. You see hundreds of plays every
year. But to me, who have never seen anything of this kind before,
the effect of this play is terribly disquieting. Sir: if it had been
what people call an immoral play, I shouldnt have minded a bit.
[Vaughan is shocked].
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