"And why does he pretend to do nothing? When he's out he rides
hard; but at other times there's a ha-ha, lack a-daisical air about
him which I hate. Why men assume it I never could understand. It
can recommend them to nobody. A man can't suppose that he'll gain
anything by pretending that he never reads, and never thinks, and
never does anything, and never speaks, and doesn't care what he has
for dinner, and, upon the whole, would just as soon lie in bed all
day as get up. It isn't that he is really idle. He rides and eats,
and does get up, and I daresay talks and thinks. It's simply a poor
affectation."

"That's your rose colour, is it?"

"You've promised secrecy, Lady Chiltern. I suppose he's well off?"

"He is an eldest son. The property is not large, and I'm afraid
there's something wrong about it."

"He has no profession?"

"None at all. He has an allowance of £800 a year, which in some sort
of fashion is independent of his father. He has nothing on earth to
do. Adelaide's whole fortune is four thousand pounds. If they were to
marry what would become of them?"

"That wouldn't be enough to live on?"

"It ought to be enough,--as he must, I suppose, have the property
some day,--if only he had something to do. What sort of a life would
he lead?"