“I must go, Basil,” he answered.
“Very well,” said Hallward, and he went
over and laid down his cup on the tray. “It
is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had
better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye,
Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow.”
“Certainly.”
“You won’t forget?”
“No, of course not,” cried Dorian.
“And ... Harry!”
“Yes, Basil?”
“Remember what I asked you, when we were in
the garden this morning.”
“I have forgotten it.”
“I trust you.”
“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord
Henry, laughing. “Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom
is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.
Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting
afternoon.”
As the door closed behind them, the painter flung
himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into
his face.
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.
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.”
