“You mean that you inspired it?”

“No, I have written it, or rather, was going to write it.”

“Wake up, Ernest! You are mad!”

“No, in all seriousness. It is mine. I told you — don’t you remember — when we returned from Coney Island — that I was writing a play.”

“Ah, but not this play.”

“Yes, this play. I conceived it, I practically wrote it.”

“The more’s the pity that Clarke had preconceived it.”

“But it is mine!”

“Did you tell him a word about it?”