DUCHESS OF BERWICK. Dear girl! She is so fond of photographs of Switzerland. Such a pure taste, I think. But I really am so sorry for you, Margaret. LADY WINDERMERE. [_Smiling_.] Why, Duchess? DUCHESS OF BERWICK. Oh, on account of that horrid woman. She dresses so well, too, which makes it much worse, sets such a dreadful example. Augustus—you know my disreputable brother—such a trial to us all—well, Augustus is completely infatuated about her. It is quite scandalous, for she is absolutely inadmissible into society. Many a woman has a past, but I am told that she has at least a dozen, and that they all fit. LADY WINDERMERE. Whom are you talking about, Duchess? DUCHESS OF BERWICK. About Mrs. Erlynne. LADY WINDERMERE. Mrs. Erlynne? I never heard of her, Duchess. And what _has_ she to do with me? DUCHESS OF BERWICK. My poor child! Agatha, darling! LADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma. DUCHESS OF BERWICK. Will you go out on the terrace and look at the sunset? LADY AGATHA. Yes, mamma. [_Exit through window_, _L._] DUCHESS OF BERWICK. Sweet girl! So devoted to sunsets! Shows such refinement of feeling, does it not? After all, there is nothing like Nature, is there? LADY WINDERMERE. But what is it, Duchess? Why do you talk to me about this person? DUCHESS OF BERWICK. Don’t you really know? I assure you we’re all so distressed about it. Only last night at dear Lady Jansen’s every one was saying how extraordinary it was that, of all men in London, Windermere should behave in such a way. LADY WINDERMERE. My husband—what has _he_ got to do with any woman of that kind?