one. His nature is too fine for that."

Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me,"
he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the
only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question-- simple
curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to
us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of course, in
middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern."

Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible,
Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you
see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be
a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any one can
wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to place her
on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman who is
mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for that. Ah!
don't mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust
makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I
regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you
have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane's
hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous,
delightful theories."

"And those are ... ?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.

"Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories
about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry."

"Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered in
his slow melodious voice. "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory as
my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature's test, her
sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are
good, we are not always happy."

"Ah! but what do you mean by good?" cried Basil Hallward.

"Yes," echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord
Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the
centre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?"

"To be good is to be in harmony with one's self," he replied, touching
the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. "Discord
is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One's own life--that is
the important thing. As for the lives of one's neighbours, if one wishes
to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one's moral views about them,
but they are not one's concern. Besides, individualism has really the
higher aim. Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one's
age. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of
his age is a form of the grossest immorality."

"But, surely, if one lives merely for one's self, Harry, one pays a
terrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter.

"Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that
the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but
self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of
the rich."

"One has to pay in other ways but money."

"What sort of ways, Basil?"

"Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in . . . well, in the
consciousness of degradation."

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, mediaeval art is
charming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date. One can use them in
fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in fiction
are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no
civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows
what a pleasure is."

"I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore some one."

"That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with
some fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as
humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us
to do something for them."

"I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to
us," murmured the lad gravely. "They create love in our natures. They
have a right to demand it back."

"That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward.

"Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry.

"This is," interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women give
to men the very gold of their lives."

"Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very
small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once put
it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us
from carrying them out."

"Harry, you are dreadful! I don't know why I like you so much."

"You will always like me, Dorian," he replied. "Will you have some
coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and some
cigarettes. No, don't mind the cigarettes--I have some. Basil, I can't


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