Chapter 4
Oernoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reing in a luxurious arm-chair, itle library of Lord Henrys house in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainsg of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les t Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue a jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London.
Lord Henry had not yet e in. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous tig of the Louis Quatorze clonoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away.
At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are, Harry!" he murmured.
"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill voice.
He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I thought--"
"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got seventeen of them."
"Not seventeen, Lady Henry?"
"Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the ht at the opera." She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her vague fet-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania foing to church.
"That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?"
"Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagners music better than anybodys. It is so loud that one talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, dont you think sray?"
The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.
Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I dont think so, Lady Henry. I alk during music--at least, during good music. If one hears bad music, it is ones duty to drown it in versation."
"Ah! that is one of Harrys views, isnt it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harrys views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of them. But you must not think I dont 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 dont know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are fners. They all are, aint they? Even those that are born in England bee fners after a time, dont they? It is so clever of them, and such a pliment to art. Makes it quite opolitan, doesnt it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must e. I t afford orchids, but I share no expense in fners. T