A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory
at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth,
who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty,
was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and
the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that
stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered
silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding.
Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups,
and her full red lips were smiling at something that
Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying
back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them.
On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending
to listen to the duke’s description of the last
Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection.
Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing
tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party
consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected
to arrive on the next day.
“What are you two talking about?” said
Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting
his cup down. “I hope Dorian has told you
about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys.
It is a delightful idea.”
“But I don’t want to be rechristened,
Harry,” rejoined the duchess, looking up at
him with her wonderful eyes. “I am quite
satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray
should be satisfied with his.”
“My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name
for the world. They are both perfect. I
was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I
cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous
spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins.
In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners
what it was called. He told me it was a fine
specimen of Robinsoniana, or something dreadful of
that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost
the faculty of giving lovely names to things.
Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions.
My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason
I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man
who could call a spade a spade should be compelled
to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.”
“Then what should we call you, Harry?”
she asked.
“His name is Prince Paradox,” said Dorian.
“I recognize him in a flash,” exclaimed
the duchess.
“I won’t hear of it,” laughed Lord
Henry, sinking into a chair. “From a label
there is no escape! I refuse the title.”
“Royalties may not abdicate,” fell as
a warning from pretty lips.
“You wish me to defend my throne, then?”
“Yes.”
“I give the truths of to-morrow.”
“I prefer the mistakes of to-day,” she
answered.
“You disarm me, Gladys,” he cried, catching
the wilfulness of her mood.
“Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear.”
“I never tilt against beauty,” he said,
with a wave of his hand.
