Chapter 3

At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father’s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.

At half past twelve the next day, Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street to the Albany to visit his uncle, Lord Fermor. Lord Fermor was a good-natured old bachelor, though somewhat rough-mannered. The outside world called him selfish because it got no particular benefit from him. Society, however, considered him generous because he fed the people who amused him. Lord Fermor’s father had been the British ambassador in Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim had not yet been heard of. But he had left the diplomatic service in a sudden fit of annoyance when he was not offered the ambassadorship in Paris. He considered himself fully entitled to the post because of his birth, his laziness, the good English of his dispatches, and his excessive love of pleasure. Lord Fermor, who had been his father’s secretary, resigned along with him. At the time, people thought this rather foolish. A few months later, Lord Fermor inherited his title and set about seriously studying the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large houses in town but preferred to live in chambers because they were less trouble. He ate most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to managing his coal mines in the Midland counties. He excused this taint of industry by saying that coal had one advantage. It allowed a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office. Then he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.

When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times. “Well, Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five.”

When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting coat. His uncle was smoking a cigar and grumbling over The Times. “Well, Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up before two and never appeared in public before five.”

“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you.”

“Just family love, I promise you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you.”

“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. “Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything.”

“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor, grimacing. “Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people these days think money is everything.”

“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; “and when they grow older they know it. But I don’t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information.”

“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, adjusting the flower in his buttonhole. “And when they grow older, they know it. But I don’t want money. Only people who pay their bills want money, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is a younger son’s capital, and one lives charmingly on it. Besides, I always do business with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, so they never bother me. What I want is information. Not useful information, of course, but useless information.”

“Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.”

“Well, Harry, I can tell you anything that is in a British government Blue Book. But the fellows who write them nowadays write a lot of nonsense. Things were much better when I was in the diplomatic service. But I hear they now admit people by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are complete nonsense from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough. If he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,” said Lord Henry languidly.

“Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong in Blue Books, Uncle George,” Lord Henry said lazily.

“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows.

“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, frowning beneath his bushy white eyebrows.

“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.”

“That’s what I’ve come to find out, Uncle George. Actually, I know who he is. He’s the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about her. What was she like? Who did she marry? You’ve known nearly everyone in your time, so you might have known her. I’m very interested in Mr. Gray right now. I’ve only just met him.”

“Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the old gentleman. “Kelso’s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow—a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public—paid him, sir, to do it, paid him—and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap.”

“Kelso’s grandson!” the old gentleman echoed. “Kelso’s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother very well. I believe I was at her christening. Margaret Devereux was an extraordinarily beautiful girl. She drove all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young man. He was a nobody, sir, a junior officer in an infantry regiment, or something like that. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor fellow was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about the duel. They said Kelso got some crooked adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public. He paid him, sir, paid him to do it. They said the fellow ran his sword through Kelso’s son-in-law as if he were a pigeon. The affair was covered up, but, good Lord, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterward. I was told he brought his daughter back with him, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes, it was a bad business. The girl died too, within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking fellow.”

“He is very good-looking,” assented Lord Henry.

“He is very good-looking,” Lord Henry agreed.

“I hope he will fall into proper hands,” continued the old man. “He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn’t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.”

“I hope he ends up in the right hands,” the old man continued. “He should have a lot of money waiting for him if Kelso did right by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso and thought he was a mean dog. He was, too. He came to Madrid once when I was there. Good Lord, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English nobleman who was always arguing with cab drivers about their fares. People made quite a story of it. I didn’t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he treated the cab drivers.”

“I don’t know,” answered Lord Henry. “I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?”

“I don’t know,” Lord Henry replied. “I think the boy will be well off. He’s not old enough to inherit yet. I know he has Selby. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?”

“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn’t a girl in London at the time who wasn’t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain’t English girls good enough for him?”

“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest people I ever saw, Harry. I could never understand what on earth made her behave as she did. She could have married anyone she wanted. Carlington was crazy about her. But she was romantic. All the women in that family were. The men were a poor lot, but goodness, the women were wonderful. Carlington got down on his knees for her. He told me so himself. She laughed at him, though every girl in London was after him at the time. And speaking of silly marriages, Harry, what’s this nonsense your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Aren’t English girls good enough for him?”

“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.”

“It’s quite fashionable to marry Americans these days, Uncle George.”

“I’ll back English women against the world, Harry,” said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist.

“I’d bet on English women against any in the world, Harry,” said Lord Fermor, pounding the table with his fist.

“The betting is on the Americans.”

“People are betting on the Americans.”

“They don’t last, I am told,” muttered his uncle.

“They don’t last, I’m told,” his uncle muttered.

“A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don’t think Dartmoor has a chance.”

“A long engagement wears them out, but they’re excellent at a steeplechase. They take things at full speed. I don’t think Dartmoor has a chance.”

“Who are her people?” grumbled the old gentleman. “Has she got any?”

“Who is her family?” grumbled the old man. “Does she have one?”

Lord Henry shook his head. “American girls are as clever at concealing their parents, as English women are at concealing their past,” he said, rising to go.

Lord Henry shook his head. “American girls are as good at hiding their parents as English women are at hiding their past,” he said, standing up to leave.

“They are pork-packers, I suppose?”

“They work in meatpacking, I suppose?”

“I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics.”

“I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I hear that pork-packing is the most profitable profession in America, after politics.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Is she pretty?”

“She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.”

“She acts as if she were beautiful. Most American women do. That is the secret of their charm.”

“Why can’t these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the paradise for women.”

“Why can’t these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that America is a paradise for women.”

“It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it,” said Lord Henry. “Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.”

“It is. That’s why, like Eve, they’re so eager to get out of it,” said Lord Henry. “Goodbye, Uncle George. I’ll be late for lunch if I stay any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends and nothing about my old ones.”

“Where are you lunching, Harry?”

“Where are you having lunch, Harry?”

“At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest protégé.”

“At Aunt Agatha’s. I invited myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest protégé.”

“Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads.”

“Humph! Harry, tell your Aunt Agatha to stop bothering me with her appeals for charity. I’m sick of them. The good woman thinks I have nothing better to do than write checks for her silly causes.”

“All right, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but it won’t have any effect. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their distinguishing characteristic.”

“All right, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but telling her won’t make any difference. People who do charity work lose all sense of humanity. That’s what sets them apart.”

The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.

The old gentleman growled in approval and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry walked through the low arcade into Burlington Street and headed toward Berkeley Square.

So that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parentage. Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one’s own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one’s temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that—perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil’s studio, or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him—had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death.

So that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parents. Though the story had been crudely told, its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance had stirred him. A beautiful woman risking everything for a reckless passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a horrible, treacherous crime. Months of silent agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother taken by death, the boy left alone under the tyranny of an old man incapable of love. Yes, it was an interesting background. It gave the boy a striking presence, making him more perfect, in a way. Behind every exquisite thing, there was something tragic. Worlds had to suffer the pains of birth so that even the humblest flower could bloom.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before. He had sat opposite him at the club, his eyes wide and his lips parted in frightened pleasure. The red candle shades deepened the rosy color of the growing wonder on his face. Talking to him was like playing an exquisite violin. He responded to every touch and tremor of the bow.... There was something terribly captivating about exercising influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into a graceful form and let it remain there for a moment. To hear one’s own intellectual views echoed back, made more musical by passion and youth. To pass one’s temperament into another person as if it were a delicate fluid or a strange perfume. There was real joy in all that. Perhaps it was the most satisfying joy left to us in an age as limited and vulgar as our own. It was an age crudely physical in its pleasures and crudely ordinary in its aims.... The boy was a marvelous type, too. By such a curious chance, he had met him in Basil’s studio. Or, at any rate, the boy could be shaped into a marvelous type. He had grace, the white purity of boyhood, and beauty like that preserved in ancient Greek marble statues. There was nothing one could not do with him. He could be made into a Titan or a toy. What a pity that such beauty was destined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! The boy’s mere visible presence had so strangely inspired a new style of art and a fresh way of seeing life. Yet the boy was unaware of it all. The silent spirit that lived in shadowy woods and walked unseen in open fields had suddenly appeared. She was like a Dryad and felt no fear. For the soul of the man who sought her had awakened to that wonderful vision. Only to such a vision are wonderful things revealed. The shapes and patterns of things seemed to grow more refined and take on a kind of symbolic value. It was as if they were themselves patterns of some other, more perfect form, whose shadow they made real. How strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the colored marbles of a sequence of sonnets? But in our own century it was strange.... Yes, he would try to be to Dorian Gray what the boy, without knowing it, was to the painter who had created the wonderful portrait. He would try to dominate him. Indeed, he had already half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating about this son of love and death.

Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room.

Suddenly, he stopped and looked up at the houses. He realized he had walked some distance past his aunt’s house. Smiling to himself, he turned back. When he entered the rather gloomy hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave a footman his hat and walking stick and went into the dining room.

“Late as usual, Harry,” cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.

“Late as usual, Harry,” his aunt exclaimed, shaking her head at him.

He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt’s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape.

He made up an easy excuse and took the empty seat next to her. Then he looked around to see who was there. From the end of the table, Dorian bowed to him shyly, a flush of pleasure creeping into his cheeks. Opposite sat the Duchess of Harley, a remarkably kind and good-tempered woman, liked by everyone who knew her. She had the generous, architectural proportions that modern historians call stoutness in women who are not duchesses. On her right sat Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament. In public life he followed his leader, and in private life he followed the best cooks. Following a wise and familiar rule, he dined with the Tories and thought with the Liberals. On the Duchess’s left sat Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture. He had, however, fallen into the bad habit of silence. He had once explained to Lady Agatha that he had said everything he had to say before he was thirty. Next to him sat Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt’s oldest friends. She was a perfect saint among women, but so dreadfully unfashionable that she resembled a badly bound hymn book. Fortunately for him, Lord Faudel sat on her other side. Lord Faudel was a highly intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons. Mrs. Vandeleur was talking with him in an intensely earnest manner. As he himself had once remarked, this earnestness was the one unforgivable mistake all truly good people make. None of them ever quite escape it.

“We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,” cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. “Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?”

“We’re talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,” the duchess said, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. “Do you think he’ll really marry this fascinating young person?”

“I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.”

“I think she has decided to propose to him, Duchess.”

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Agatha. “Really, some one should interfere.”

“How awful!” exclaimed Lady Agatha. “Really, someone should step in.”

“I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store,” said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.

“I’m told by a very reliable source that her father runs an American dry-goods store,” said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking disdainful.

“My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.”

“My uncle has already suggested pork packing, Sir Thomas.”

“Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?” asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb.

“Dry goods! What are American dry goods?” asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and emphasizing the word “are.”

“American novels,” answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.

“American novels,” Lord Henry answered, serving himself some quail.

The duchess looked puzzled.

The duchess looked puzzled.

“Don’t mind him, my dear,” whispered Lady Agatha. “He never means anything that he says.”

“Don’t pay attention to him, my dear,” whispered Lady Agatha. “He never means anything he says.”

“When America was discovered,” said the Radical member—and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. “I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!” she exclaimed. “Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair.”

“When America was discovered,” said the Radical member, and he began to list some boring facts. Like everyone who tries to cover a subject completely, he wore out his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interrupting. “I really wish America had never been discovered at all!” she exclaimed. “Honestly, our girls have no chance these days. It’s terribly unfair.”

“Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,” said Mr. Erskine; “I myself would say that it had merely been detected.”

“Perhaps America was never really discovered after all,” said Mr. Erskine. “I would say it was merely detected.”

“Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,” answered the duchess vaguely. “I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same.”

“Oh, but I have seen some of the inhabitants,” the duchess replied vaguely. “I must admit that most of them are very pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same.”

“They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,” chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour’s cast-off clothes.

“They say that when good Americans die, they go to Paris,” chuckled Sir Thomas. He had a large collection of worn-out jokes.

“Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?” inquired the duchess.

“Really! And where do bad Americans go when they die?” asked the duchess.

“They go to America,” murmured Lord Henry.

“They go to America,” murmured Lord Henry.

Sir Thomas frowned. “I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country,” he said to Lady Agatha. “I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.”

Sir Thomas frowned. “I’m afraid your nephew is prejudiced against that great country,” he said to Lady Agatha. “I’ve traveled all over it in railway cars provided by the directors. They are extremely polite about such things. I assure you, visiting the country is an education.”

“But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?” asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. “I don’t feel up to the journey.”

“But do we really have to see Chicago to be educated?” Mr. Erskine asked plaintively. “I don’t feel up to the trip.”

Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.”

Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his bookshelves. We practical men like to see things, not read about them. Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is what sets them apart. Yes, Mr. Erskine, they are an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you, Americans have no nonsense about them.”

“How dreadful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect.”

“How awful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can stand brute force, but brute reason is unbearable. There’s something unfair about using it. It’s hitting below the intellect.”

“I do not understand you,” said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.

“I don’t understand you,” said Sir Thomas, his face growing rather red.

“I do, Lord Henry,” murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.

“I do, Lord Henry,” Mr. Erskine murmured with a smile.

“Paradoxes are all very well in their way....” rejoined the baronet.

“Paradoxes are all well and good in their own way....” replied the baronet.

“Was that a paradox?” asked Mr. Erskine. “I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we can judge them.”

“Was that a paradox?” asked Mr. Erskine. “I didn't think so. Perhaps it was. Well, paradoxes are the path to truth. To test reality, we must see it on a tightrope. When truths become acrobats, we can judge them.”

“Dear me!” said Lady Agatha, “how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his playing.”

“Oh my!” said Lady Agatha. “How you men argue! I’m sure I can never understand what you’re talking about. Oh, Harry, I’m quite upset with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you, he would be invaluable there. They would love his playing.”

“I want him to play to me,” cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance.

“I want him to play for me,” Lord Henry said with a smile. He looked down the table and caught a bright glance in reply.

“But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,” continued Lady Agatha.

“But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,” Lady Agatha continued.

“I can sympathize with everything except suffering,” said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. “I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores, the better.”

“I can sympathize with everything except suffering,” said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. “I cannot sympathize with suffering. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid about modern sympathy for pain. One should sympathize with the color, beauty, and joy of life. The less said about life’s sores, the better.”

“Still, the East End is a very important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas with a grave shake of the head.

“Still, the East End is a very important problem,” said Sir Thomas, shaking his head seriously.

“Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.”

“Exactly,” the young lord replied. “It is the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by entertaining the slaves.”

The politician looked at him keenly. “What change do you propose, then?” he asked.

The politician looked at him closely. “What change are you suggesting, then?” he asked.

Lord Henry laughed. “I don’t desire to change anything in England except the weather,” he answered. “I am quite content with philosophic contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional.”

Lord Henry laughed. “I don’t want to change anything in England except the weather,” he replied. “I’m quite happy to sit and think about life. But the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt by spending too much sympathy. So I suggest we turn to science to set us straight. The advantage of emotions is that they lead us astray. And the advantage of science is that it has no emotions.”

“But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur timidly.

“But we have such serious responsibilities,” Mrs. Vandeleur said timidly.

“Terribly grave,” echoed Lady Agatha.

“Very serious,” repeated Lady Agatha.

Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known how to laugh, history would have been different.”

Lord Henry looked at Mr. Erskine. “People take themselves too seriously. This is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known how to laugh, history would have been different.”

“You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have always felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look her in the face without a blush.”

“You’re really very reassuring,” the duchess said sweetly. “I’ve always felt rather guilty visiting your dear aunt because I have no interest at all in the East End. From now on, I’ll be able to look her in the face without blushing.”

“A blush is very becoming, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry.

“Blushing suits you very well, Duchess,” said Lord Henry.

“Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again.”

“Only when you're young,” she replied. “When an old woman like me blushes, it's a very bad sign. Oh, Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again.”

He thought for a moment. “Can you remember any great error that you committed in your early days, Duchess?” he asked, looking at her across the table.

He thought for a moment. “Duchess, can you remember any great mistake you made when you were young?” he asked, looking at her across the table.

“A great many, I fear,” she cried.

“I’m afraid there are a great many,” she cried.

“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.”

“Then do them again,” he said seriously. “To regain your youth, you only have to repeat your mistakes.”

“A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.”

“What a wonderful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must try it out.”

“A dangerous theory!” came from Sir Thomas’s tight lips. Lady Agatha shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.

“A dangerous theory!” Sir Thomas said with tight lips. Lady Agatha shook her head but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.

“Yes,” he continued, “that is one of the great secrets of life. Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.”

“Yes,” he continued, “that is one of the great secrets of life. These days, most people die from a kind of common sense that slowly creeps over them. Too late, they discover that the only things they never regret are their mistakes.”

A laugh ran round the table.

Laughter went around the table.

He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.

He played with the idea and grew more daring. He tossed it into the air and transformed it, let it escape and caught it again. He made it shimmer with imagination and gave it wings with paradox. As he went on, his praise of folly soared into a philosophy. Philosophy herself became young and caught the wild music of pleasure. One might imagine her wearing a wine-stained robe and a wreath of ivy. She danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled before her like frightened creatures in a forest. Her white feet trod the great winepress where wise Omar sits. The bubbling grape juice rose around her bare legs in waves of purple bubbles. It crept in red foam over the vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary improvisation. He felt Dorian Gray’s eyes fixed on him. Among his listeners was one person whose temperament he wanted to fascinate. Knowing this seemed to sharpen his wit and give color to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his music, laughing. Dorian Gray never looked away from him. He sat as if under a spell, smiles following one another across his lips. The wonder in his darkening eyes grew serious.

At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “How annoying!” she cried. “I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to some absurd meeting at Willis’s Rooms, where he is going to be in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn’t have a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don’t know what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?”

At last, reality entered the room in the form of a servant, dressed in the uniform of the age. He told the duchess that her carriage was waiting. She wrung her hands in pretend despair. “How annoying!” she cried. “I must go. I have to pick up my husband at the club. I must take him to some absurd meeting at Willis’s Rooms, where he is going to be chairing the meeting. If I’m late, he’s sure to be furious, and I couldn’t have a scene in this bonnet. It’s far too fragile. A harsh word would ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Goodbye, Lord Henry, you are quite delightful and terribly corrupting. I really don’t know what to say about your views. You must come and have dinner with us one night. Tuesday? Are you free Tuesday?”

“For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a bow.

“For you, I would abandon anyone, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a bow.

“Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,” she cried; “so mind you come”; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies.

“Oh! That is very nice of you, and very wrong,” she cried. “So make sure you come.” She swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies.

When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.

After Lord Henry sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved over and took a chair beside him. He placed his hand on Lord Henry’s arm.

“You talk books away,” he said; “why don’t you write one?”

“You say enough to fill books,” he said. “Why don’t you write one?”

“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature.”

“I enjoy reading books too much to want to write them, Mr. Erskine. I would certainly like to write a novel. It would be as beautiful and as unreal as a Persian carpet. But in England, there is no reading public for anything except newspapers, textbooks, and encyclopedias. Of all the people in the world, the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature.”

“I fear you are right,” answered Mr. Erskine. “I myself used to have literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really meant all that you said to us at lunch?”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Mr. Erskine replied. “I used to want to be a writer myself, but I gave up that ambition long ago. And now, my dear young friend, if you’ll let me call you that, may I ask you something? Did you really mean everything you said to us at lunch?”

“I quite forget what I said,” smiled Lord Henry. “Was it all very bad?”

“I’ve completely forgotten what I said,” Lord Henry said with a smile. “Was it all very bad?”

“Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate enough to possess.”

“Very bad indeed. In fact, I think you are extremely dangerous. If anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all hold you primarily responsible. But I would like to talk to you about life. The generation I was born into was dull. Someday, when you are tired of London, come down to Treadley. Tell me about your philosophy of pleasure over some excellent Burgundy I am lucky enough to have.”

“I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It has a perfect host, and a perfect library.”

“I’d be delighted. Visiting Treadley would be a great privilege. It has a perfect host and a perfect library.”

“You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courteous bow. “And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.”

“You will finish it,” replied the old gentleman with a polite bow. “Now I must say goodbye to your wonderful aunt. I’m expected at the Athenaeum. It’s the time when we sleep there.”

“All of you, Mr. Erskine?”

“All of you, Mr. Erskine?”

“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English Academy of Letters.”

“Forty of us, in forty armchairs. We’re practicing for an English Academy of Letters.”

Lord Henry laughed and rose. “I am going to the park,” he cried.

Lord Henry laughed and stood up. “I’m going to the park,” he cried.

As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. “Let me come with you,” he murmured.

As he was leaving through the door, Dorian Gray touched his arm. “Let me come with you,” he murmured.

“But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,” answered Lord Henry.

“But I thought you promised Basil Hallward you would go see him,” replied Lord Henry.

“I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so wonderfully as you do.”

“I would rather come with you. Yes, I feel I must come with you. Please let me. And will you promise to talk to me the whole time? No one talks as wonderfully as you do.”

“Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,” said Lord Henry, smiling. “All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with me, if you care to.”

“Ah! I’ve talked quite enough for today,” said Lord Henry, smiling. “All I want now is to look at life. You can come and look at life with me, if you like.”