O.W. How typical of the French mind is that word “only”! But what else, my dear Davray, was the thought of the eighteenth century, so far as it went, but an attempt to bring Religion and Philosophy together in the bonds of holy matrimony? R.R. The misalliance which produced the French Revolution. O.W. Robbie, you must not be so brilliant before meals! Or do you wish to divert my appetite? May a guest who was supposed to be late enquire—when, precisely? R.R. The situation, my dear Oscar, is of your own making. You insisted upon ortolans; L.H. telegraphed for them; they have only just arrived. O.W. If they are still in their feathers, let them fly again! A flight of ortolans across Paris: how romantic, how unexplainable! H.A. Oh, no! Let’s wait for them, please! I want to taste one: I never have. O.W. So young, and already so eager for disappointment! Why give up imagination? “Ortolan,” the word, is far more beautiful than when it is made flesh. If you were wise you would learn life only by inexperience. That is what makes it always unexpected and delightful. Never to realize—that is the true ideal. L.H. Still, one goes on liking plovers’ eggs after eating them: at least, I do. O.W. Ah, yes; an egg is always an adventure: it may be different. But you are right; there are a few things—like the Nocturnes of Chopin—which can repeat themselves without repetition. The genius of the artist preserves them from being ever quite realized. But it has to be done carelessly. (_There is a pause, while L.H., with due enquiry of each, orders the aperitifs._) R.R. Oscar, why did you choose the “Vieille Rose”? O.W. Will you believe me, Robbie, when I say—to match my complexion? I have never before seen it by daylight. Is it not a perfect parable of life, that such depravity by gaslight should become charming? Will our host allow us to have white wine as a corrective? An additional red might be dangerous. (_And with the colour-scheme of the approaching meal made safe, he continues to charm the ears of himself and of his listeners._)