that the
psychological interest of the second act would be greatly increased
by the disclosure of the actual relationship existing between Lady
Windermere and Mrs. Erlynne--an opinion, I may add, that had
previously been strongly held and urged by Mr. Alexander.... I
determined, consequently, to make a change in the precise moment of
revelation."

It is impossible to say whether Wilde seriously believed that
"psychology" entered into the matter at all, or whether he was laughing
in his sleeve in putting forward this solemn plea. The truth is, I
think, that this example cannot be cited either for or against the
keeping of a secret, the essential fact being that the secret was such a
bad and inacceptable one--inacceptable, I mean, as an explanation of
Lord Windermere's conduct--that it was probably wise to make a clean
breast of it as soon as possible, and get it over. It may be said with
perfect confidence that it is useless to keep a secret which, when
revealed, is certain to disappoint the audience, and to make it feel
that it has been trifled with. That is an elementary dictate of
prudence. But if the reason for Lord Windermere's conduct had been
adequate, ingenious, such as to give us, when revealed, a little shock
of pleasant surprise, the author need certainly have been in no hurry to
disclose it. It is not improbable (though my memory is not clear on the
point) that part of the strong interest we undoubtedly felt on the first
night arose from the hope that Lord Windermere's seemingly unaccountable
conduct might be satisfactorily accounted for. As this hope was futile,
there was no reason, at subsequent performances, to keep up the pretence
of preserving a secret which was probably known, as a matter of fact, to
most of the audience, and which was worthless when revealed.

In the second act of _The Devil's Disciple_, by Mr. Bernard Shaw, we
have an instance of wholly inartistic secrecy, which would certainly be
condemned in the work of any author who was not accepted in advance as a
law unto himself. Richard Dudgeon has been arrested by the British
soldiers, who mistake him for the Reverend Anthony Anderson. When
Anderson comes home, it takes a very long time for his silly wife,
Judith, to acquaint him with a situation that might have been explained
in three words; and when, at last, he does understand it, he calls for a
horse and his boots, and rushes off in mad haste, as though his one
desire were t