“Ah! that is one of Harry’s views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray?  I always hear Harry’s views from his friends.  It is the only way I get to know of them.  But you must not think I don’t like good music.  I adore it, but I am afraid of it.  It makes me too romantic.  I have simply worshipped pianists—­ two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me.  I don’t know what it is about them.  Perhaps it is that they are foreigners.  They all are, ain’t they?  Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don’t they?  It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art.  Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn’t it?  You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray?  You must come.  I can’t afford orchids, but I share no expense in foreigners.  They make one’s rooms look so picturesque.  But here is Harry!  Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something—­ I forget what it was—­and I found Mr. Gray here.  We have had such a pleasant chat about music.  We have quite the same ideas.  No; I think our ideas are quite different.  But he has been most pleasant.  I am so glad I’ve seen him.”

“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile.  “So sorry I am late, Dorian.  I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it.  Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

“I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.  “I have promised to drive with the duchess.  Good-bye, Mr. Gray.  Good-bye, Harry.  You are dining out, I suppose?  So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”

“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni.  Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa.

“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said after a few puffs.

“Why, Harry?”

“Because they are so sentimental.”

“But I like sentimental people.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian.  Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious:  both are disappointed.”

“I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry.  I am too much in love.  That is one of your aphorisms.  I am putting it into practice, as I do everything that you say.”

“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause.

“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  “That is a rather commonplace debut.”

“You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”

“Never heard of her.”

“No one has.  People will some day, however.  She is a genius.”