MRS. ARBUTHNOT. What do you mean? LORD ILLINGWORTH. What letter is this? [_Takes up letter_.] MRS. ARBUTHNOT. That—is nothing. Give it to me. LORD ILLINGWORTH. It is addressed to _me_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are not to open it. I forbid you to open it. LORD ILLINGWORTH. And in Gerald’s handwriting. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It was not to have been sent. It is a letter he wrote to you this morning, before he saw me. But he is sorry now he wrote it, very sorry. You are not to open it. Give it to me. LORD ILLINGWORTH. It belongs to me. [_Opens it_, _sits down and reads it slowly_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _watches him all the time_.] You have read this letter, I suppose, Rachel? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No. LORD ILLINGWORTH. You know what is in it? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes! LORD ILLINGWORTH. I don’t admit for a moment that the boy is right in what he says. I don’t admit that it is any duty of mine to marry you. I deny it entirely. But to get my son back I am ready—yes, I am ready to marry you, Rachel—and to treat you always with the deference and respect due to my wife. I will marry you as soon as you choose. I give you my word of honour. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You made that promise to me once before and broke it. LORD ILLINGWORTH. I will keep it now. And that will show you that I love my son, at least as much as you love him. For when I marry you, Rachel, there are some ambitions I shall have to surrender. High ambitions, too, if any ambition is high. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I decline to marry you, Lord Illingworth. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Are you serious? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Do tell me your reasons. They would interest me enormously. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. I have already explained them to my son. LORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose they were intensely sentimental, weren’t they? You women live by your emotions and for them. You have no philosophy of life. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. You are right. We women live by our emotions and for them. By our passions, and for them, if you will. I have two passions, Lord Illingworth: my love of him, my hate of you. You cannot kill those. They feed each other. LORD ILLINGWORTH. What sort of love is that which needs to have hate as its brother? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. It is the sort of love I have for Gerald. Do you think that terrible? Well it is terrible. All love is terrible. All love is a tragedy. I loved you once, Lord Illingworth. Oh, what a tragedy for a woman to have loved you! LORD ILLINGWORTH. So you really refuse to marry me? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes. LORD ILLINGWORTH. Because you hate me? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Yes. LORD ILLINGWORTH. And does my son hate me as you do? MRS. ARBUTHNOT. No. LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am glad of that, Rachel. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He merely despises you. LORD ILLINGWORTH. What a pity! What a pity for him, I mean. MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t be deceived, George. Children begin by loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely if ever do they forgive them.