suffer from curiously bad health.

Algernon. Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid.

Lady Bracknell. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high
time that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live
or to die. This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. Nor
do I in any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. I
consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be
encouraged in others. Health is the primary duty of life. I am
always telling that to your poor uncle, but he never seems to take
much notice . . . as far as any improvement in his ailment goes. I
should be much obliged if you would ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, to be
kind enough not to have a relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to
arrange my music for me. It is my last reception, and one wants
something that will encourage conversation, particularly at the end
of the season when every one has practically said whatever they had
to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much.

Algernon. I'll speak to Bunbury, Aunt Augusta, if he is still
conscious, and I think I can promise you he'll be all right by
Saturday. Of course the music is a great difficulty. You see, if
one plays good music, people don't listen, and if one plays bad
music people don't talk. But I'll run over the programme I've drawn
out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment.

Lady Bracknell. Thank you, Algernon. It is very thoughtful of you.
[Rising, and following Algernon.] I'm sure the programme will be
delightful, after a few expurgations. French songs I cannot
possibly allow. People always seem to think that they are improper,