Street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby of the
male sex. You never returned. A few weeks later, through the
elaborate investigations of the Metropolitan police, the
perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a
remote corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a three-
volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [Miss
Prism starts in involuntary indignation.] But the baby was not
there! [Every one looks at Miss Prism.] Prism! Where is that
baby? [A pause.]

Miss Prism. Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know.
I only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the
morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my
memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its
perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious
hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work
of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In a
moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself,
I deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and placed the baby in
the hand-bag.

Jack. [Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you
deposit the hand-bag?

Miss Prism. Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

Jack. Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I
insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained
that infant.