"Charming day it has been, Miss Fairfax," Jack began easily, leaning back against the wall. He studied the girl with a practiced casualness, hoping beyond hope she wouldn't see the agitation he was feeling inside.

"Pray don't talk to me about the weather, Mr. Worthing. Whenever people talk to me about the weather, I always feel quite certain they mean something else. And that makes me so nervous," Gwendolen pleaded, wringing her hands furiously.

"I do mean something else," he began, trying to say what he had felt for so long, deep within his heart.

"I thought so," Gwendolen responded sagely. "In fact, I am never wrong." Of this, though not much else, she was sure.

"And I would like to be allowed to take advantage of Mrs. Bracknell's temporary absence..." Jack plowed on, not registering that she was speaking to him. He had to get through this, if he was going to get through anything ever again. It was all riding on this one definitive moment.

"I would certainly advise you to do so. Mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a room that I have often had to speak to her about," she informed him sweetly, though obviously miffed over her mother's impoliteness.

"Miss Fairfax," he tried again, "ever since I met you I have admired you more than any girl...I have ever met since...I met you." He smiled a ghost of a smile, pleased with himself for completing his speech, and praying with every shred of hope in his soul that she would feel the same.

"Yes, I am quite aware of the fact," Gwendolen smiled back at him. "And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me you have always had an irresistible fascination. Even before I met you I was far from indifferent to you. We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits I am told: and my ideal has always been to love someone of the name of Ernest. There is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. The moment Algernon first mentioned to me that he had a friend called Ernest, I knew I was destined to love you."

"You really love me, Gwendolen?" Jack cried, amazed and not yet daring to hope that all his wildest dreams were about to come true.

"Passionately!"

"Darling! You don't know how happy you've made me." He stepped forward and clasped her hands in his own.

"My own Ernest!" she exclaimed, delighted.

"But," he said desperately, "you don't really meant to say that you couldn't love me if my name wasn't Ernest?"

"But your name is Ernest," she said dismissively.

"Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to say you couldn't love me then?" Jack could almost feel his heart breaking as he looked deep into his love's eyes, all exuberance hinging on her reply.

"Ah! That is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them." Gwendolen sounded smart, and she knew she did. She was a very intelligent young woman.

"Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don't much care about the name Ernest...I don't think the name suits me at all," he said softly, taking a small step forward, silently urging her to agree.

"It suits you perfectly," Gwendolen stated firmly, oblivious. "It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. It produces vibrations."

"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." He couldn't help but look hopeful as he stared into her eyes.

"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," she replied, a faint look of distaste on her lovely face. "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," she was quick to assure him.

"Gwendolen, I must get christened at once!" Upon realizing what he said, Jack flushed a rosy hue of pink and quickly corrected himself. "I mean we must get married at once. There is no time to be lost."

"Married, Mr. Worthing?" She made sure to sound positively shocked at his statement, as though she were scandalized by the very thought.

Jack blinked in surprise. "Well...surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me."

"I adore you. But you haven't proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on."

"Well...may I propose to you now?" he questioned nervously.

Gwendolen tilted her head to one side and pondered this, then smiled up at him. "I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly beforehand that I am fully determined to accept you."

"Gwendolen!"

"Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?"

"You know what I have got to say to you," he said, sounding almost as confused as he felt.

"Yes, but you don't say it," she explained, hinting for all the world. She wanted this proposal just as much as her darling Ernest did.

"Gwendolen," he spoke her name reverently, though he hesitated on the rest of the sentence, "will you marry me?"

"Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it! I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose."

"My own one, I have never loved anyone in the world but you."

"Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother Gerald does. All my girl-friends tell me so." She took his face in her hands and leaned forward just slightly, smiling at him. "What wonderfully blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite blue. I hope you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other people present."

Missy Franklin quickly darted back behind the various scenery decorations that littered both wings of the homey little theater she had grown to love. There was only two minutes allowed for scene changes, and she needed to change costume.

She adored portraying Gwendolen, Wilde's simple, amusing creation, but they had performed this play twice already in the time she'd been a member of the company. The novelty was starting to wear a little thin.

And Henry, poor, dear, sweet Henry, was driving her mad. He was playing Jack to her Gwendolen, the absolute perfect Jack. Oscar Wilde must have met Henry and modeled the character after him, the company had long since decided.

But aside from his gift for acting, Henry possessed several rather undesirable personality traits. He had a habit of falling in love with the characters his leading women brought to life. It wouldn't be so bad, she mused, if Henry was aware of it.

"Missy!" Annabelle, the props mistress, poked her head in the door. "Twenty seconds till your cue!" she whispered urgently, beckoning her out of her dressing room.

As Missy took her spot and hovered in the wings, waiting for her cue to appear onstage, she sneaked a quick peek at the audience. The numbers had dwindled noticeably from the time when she hired on as a part of the company, due, in large part, to the limited selection of plays they performed. But despite the small numbers of the crowd, there was nothing quite like the thrill of being in front of an audience, with them hanging on her every word, feeling what she was feeling, urging her onward through her trials. It was truly amazing, being able to put off all your troubles and worries for a few short hours, becoming someone else, making others forget what was on their minds when they stepped through those doors and took their seats. It was a magic Missy couldn't even begin to describe to those not a part of her profession.

Her cue came. She took a deep breath and joined her castmates on the stage for the next scene.

"Come on, Missy, please? Just one drink? We don't have to stay long," Henry whined, clinging to her hand and looking at her beseechingly.

"Henry, let go of me!" Missy wrenched her hand from his vise-like grip and frowned. "We have a busy day tomorrow. I need to go get some rest. We can go have a drink tomorrow night, alright? Tonight I need to sleep."

"But...I just want to spend some time with you. I love you, Missy."

Groaning, she said, "Henry, no you don't. You love Gwendolen. And in three weeks, you'll love Jocasta. I'm sorry, but I can't have a drink with you tonight. I'll see you tomorrow." At his hurt expression, she faltered and left him a quick kiss on the cheek as she departed.

Missy studied the cast list with a frown. Once again, she was playing Ismene during their run of the Oedipus trilogy by Sophocles. She didn't want to be playing Ismene. She had played her three times already, and though the part was small and the relearning of lines would be quick, she wanted a challenge. If only to play Jocasta or Antigone, or even a member of the chorus!

Taking a small step back, Missy surveyed her familiar surroundings. The cast list was posted on the door to Tony Craig, the theater manager' s, office. Across the hall, Henry was fawning over her dear friend Melanie Swanson, the poor actress portraying Jocasta opposite his Oedipus Rex. With the door open, she could see the costume workers frantically searching through the props room, looking for a misplaced shift...the one that belonged inside Antigone's draping robes. Tony was yelling at Pete, who was rigging the lighting up on the catwalk. The other cast members were already pouring over their scripts, slipping into character and relearning their respective parts. Mitchell Anderson was standing at left center stage, reading his lines aloud. The backstage crew was scurrying about behind her, finding the sets needed and groaning over destroyed fixtures that would have to be replaced before opening night.

Missy loved every person her gaze sought out, every aspect of the work, every floor plank and rope hanging from the catwalk, every box of chinaware, books, and wall hangings, every light bulb that lit the stage every minute detail of her little theater. But she couldn't bear one more season playing the same routine characters of Ismene, Nora (the notoriously independent woman in A Doll's House), Hero (the overly feminine and faintly whiny character in Shakespeare's hilarious Much Ado About Nothing), Isabel (one of General Stanley's daughters in the delightful musical comedy The Pirates of Penzance), and her favorite character, Gwendolen (the funny and flighty mistress in Oscar Wilde's wonderful play, The Importance of Being Ernest).

As much as she didn't want to admit it, it was time to move on. Missy needed a place where she could work and grow, where she could experience all aspects of the theater. Her mind was made up; she had to leave.

Tears pricked her eyes as she marched steadfastly toward Tony, intending to tell him of her decision.