speculation, and like most metaphysical speculations has very little
reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.

Jack. Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don't much
care about the name of Ernest . . . I don't think the name suits me
at all.

Gwendolen. It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a
music of its own. It produces vibrations.

Jack. Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are
lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a
charming name.

Gwendolen. Jack? . . . No, there is very little music in the name
Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces
absolutely no vibrations . . . I have known several Jacks, and they
all, without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack
is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is
married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed
to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment's solitude. The
only really safe name is Ernest

Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once--I mean we must get
married at once. There is no time to be lost.

Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?

Jack. [Astounded.] Well . . . surely. You know that I love you,
and you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not