Morning-room in Algernon’s flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is luxuriously
and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room.
[Lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has ceased,
Algernon enters.]
Algernon. Did you hear what I was playing, Lane?
Lane. I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir.
Algernon. I’m sorry for that, for your sake. I don’t play accurately—any one
can play accurately—but I play with wonderful expression. As far as the piano
is concerned, sentiment is my forte.