much the same mind. There was an enormous gentleman called Joseph Knight, who
cried out:

"The humour is mechanical, unreal." Seeing that I did not respond he challenged
me:

"What do you think of it?"

"That is for you critics to answer," I replied.

"I might say," he laughed, "in Oscar's own peculiar way, 'Little promise and
less performance.' Ha! ha! ha!"

"That's the exact opposite to Oscar's way," I retorted. "It is the listeners
who laugh at his humour."

"Come now, really," cried Knight, "you cannot think much of the play?"

For the first time in my life I began to realise that nine critics out of ten
are incapable of judging original work. They seem to live in a sort of fog,
waiting for someone to give them the lead, and accordingly they love to discuss
every new play right and left.

"I have not seen the whole play," I answered. "I was not at any of the
rehearsals; but so far it is surely the best comedy in English, the most
brilliant: isn't it?"

The big man started back and stared at me; then burst out laughing.

"That's good," he cried with a loud unmirthful guffaw. "'Lady Windermere's Fan'