in life. He pictured to himself with silent
amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed
by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he
gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure
to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation
would have been about the feeding of the poor and
the necessity for model lodging-houses. Each
class would have preached the importance of those virtues,
for whose exercise there was no necessity in their
own lives. The rich would have spoken on the
value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over
the dignity of labour. It was charming to have
escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt,
an idea seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward
and said, “My dear fellow, I have just remembered.”
“Remembered what, Harry?”
“Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.”
“Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a
slight frown.
“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It
was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told
me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was
going to help her in the East End, and that his name
was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she
never told me he was good-looking. Women have
no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women
have not. She said that he was very earnest and
had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to
myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly
freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I
wish I had known it was your friend.”
“I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want you to meet him.”
“You don’t want me to meet him?”
“No.”
“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,”
said the butler, coming into the garden.
“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord
Henry, laughing.
The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking
in the sunlight.
“Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall
be in in a few moments.”
The man bowed and went up the walk.
Then he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian
Gray is my dearest friend,” he said. “He
has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt
was quite right in what she said of him. Don’t
spoil him. Don’t try to influence him.
Your influence would be bad. The world is wide,
and has many marvellous people in it. Don’t
take away from me the one person who gives to my art
whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist
depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.”
He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung
out of him almost against his will.
“What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry,
smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he almost
led him into the house.
As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was
seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning
over the pages of a volume of Schumann’s “Forest
Scenes.” “You must lend me these,
Basil,” he cried. “I want to learn
them. They are perfectly charming.”
