“Harry, don’t talk like that.  As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me.  You can’t feel what I feel.  You change too often.”

“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it.  Those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love:  it is the faithless who know love’s tragedies.”  And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case, and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and self-satisfied air, as if he had summed up life in a phrase.  There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows.  How pleasant it was in the garden!  And how delightful other people’s emotions were!—­much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him.  One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends,—­those were the fascinating things in life.  He thought with pleasure of 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 meet Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the housing of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses.  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’s, 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, horridly 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.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into the garden.

“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.

Basil Hallward turned to the servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.  “Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker:  I will 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 for me.  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 [12] away from me the one person that makes life absolutely lovely to me, and that gives to my art whatever wonder or charm it possesses.  Mind, Harry, I trust you.”  He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.