[_Enter_ LORD GORING _in evening dress with a buttonhole_. _He is wearing a silk hat and Inverness cape_. _White-gloved_, _he carries a Louis Seize cane_. _His are all the delicate fopperies of Fashion_. _One sees that he stands in immediate relation to modern life_, _makes it indeed_, _and so masters it_. _He is the first well-dressed philosopher in the history of thought_.] LORD GORING. Got my second buttonhole for me, Phipps? PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Takes his hat_, _cane_, _and cape_, _and presents new buttonhole on salver_.] LORD GORING. Rather distinguished thing, Phipps. I am the only person of the smallest importance in London at present who wears a buttonhole. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. I have observed that. LORD GORING. [_Taking out old buttonhole_.] You see, Phipps, Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Just as vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Putting in a new buttonhole_.] And falsehoods the truths of other people. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance, Phipps. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. LORD GORING. [_Looking at himself in the glass_.] Don’t think I quite like this buttonhole, Phipps. Makes me look a little too old. Makes me almost in the prime of life, eh, Phipps? PHIPPS. I don’t observe any alteration in your lordship’s appearance. LORD GORING. You don’t, Phipps? PHIPPS. No, my lord. LORD GORING. I am not quite sure. For the future a more trivial buttonhole, Phipps, on Thursday evenings. PHIPPS. I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your lordship complains of in the buttonhole. LORD GORING. Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England—they are always losing their relations. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect. LORD GORING. [_Turns round and looks at him_. PHIPPS _remains impassive_.] Hum! Any letters, Phipps? PHIPPS. Three, my lord. [_Hands letters on a salver_.] LORD GORING. [_Takes letters_.] Want my cab round in twenty minutes. PHIPPS. Yes, my lord. [_Goes towards door_.] LORD GORING. [_Holds up letter in pink envelope_.] Ahem! Phipps, when did this letter arrive? PHIPPS. It was brought by hand just after your lordship went to the club.