Chapter 3
At half-past twelve 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 be from him, but who was sidered 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 servi a caprioment of annoyan not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he sidered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolehe good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his fathers 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 twe 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 ma of his collieries in the Midland ties, exg 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 decy of burning wood on his owh. In politics he was a Tory, except wheories 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 try 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 His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.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 Heered the room, he found his uting 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 affe, I assure you, Uncle Gee. 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, imagihat money is everything."
"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I dont want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle Gee, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoors tradesmen, and sequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information."
"Well, I 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 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 Gee," said Lord Henry languidly.
"Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows.
"That is what I have e to learn, Uncle Gee. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelsos grandson. His mother wa