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 His principles were out of date, but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."

"Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get
something out of you."

"Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. "Well, sit down
and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is
everything."

"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and
when they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. It is only
people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay
mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly
upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's tradesmen, and
consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not
useful information, of course; useless information."

"Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,
although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in
the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now
by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug
from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough,
and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him."

"Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord
Henry languidly.

"Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy
white eyebrows.

"That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who
he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a Devereux,
Lady Margaret Devereaux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What
was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in
your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr.
Gray at present. I have only just met him."

"Kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso's grandson! ... Of
course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her
christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret
Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless
young fellow-- a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or
something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it
happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few
months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said
Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his
son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him-- and that the
fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed
up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time
afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she
never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died,
too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten
that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a
good-looking chap."

"He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry.

"I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "He
should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing
by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her,
through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean
dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was
ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was
always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a
story of it. I didn't dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he
treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."

"I don't know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well
off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And . .
. his mother was very beautiful?"

"Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry.
What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could
understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad
after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were.
The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington
went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and
there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after him. And by
the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your
father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain't
English girls good enough for him?"

"It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George."

"I'll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor,
striking the table with his fist.



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