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The
old
gentleman
growled
approvingly
,
and
rang
the
bell
for
his
servant
.
Lord
Henry
passed
up
the
low
arcade
into
Burlington
Street
,
and
turned
his
steps
in
the
direction
of
Berkeley
Square
.
So
that
was
the
story
of
Dorian
Gray
's
parentage
.
Crudely
as
it
had
been
told
to
him
,
it
had
yet
stirred
him
by
its
suggestion
of
a
strange
,
almost
modern
romance
.
A
beautiful
woman
risking
everything
for
a
mad
passion
.
A
few
wild
weeks
of
happiness
cut
short
by
a
hideous
,
treacherous
crime
.
Months
of
voiceless
agony
,
and
then
a
child
born
in
pain
.
The
mother
snatched
away
by
death
,
the
boy
left
to
solitude
and
the
tyranny
of
an
old
and
loveless
man
.
Yes
;
it
was
an
interesting
background
.
It
posed
the
lad
,
made
him
more
perfect
as
it
were
.
Behind
every
exquisite
thing
that
existed
,
there
was
something
tragic
.
Worlds
had
to
be
in
travail
,
that
the
meanest
flower
might
blow
...
.
And
how
charming
he
had
been
at
dinner
the
night
before
,
as
,
with
startled
eyes
and
lips
parted
in
frightened
pleasure
,
he
had
sat
opposite
to
him
at
the
club
,
the
red
candleshades
staining
to
a
richer
rose
the
wakening
wonder
of
his
face
.
Talking
to
him
was
like
playing
upon
an
exquisite
violin
.
He
answered
to
every
touch
and
thrill
of
the
bow
...
.
There
was
something
terribly
enthralling
in
the
exercise
of
influence
.
No
other
activity
was
like
it
.
To
project
one
's
soul
into
some
gracious
form
,
and
let
it
tarry
there
for
a
moment
;
to
hear
one
's
own
intellectual
views
echoed
back
to
one
with
all
the
added
music
of
passion
and
youth
;
to
convey
one
's
temperament
into
another
as
though
it
were
a
subtle
fluid
or
a
strange
perfume
;
there
was
a
real
joy
in
that
--
perhaps
the
most
satisfying
joy
left
to
us
in
an
age
so
limited
and
vulgar
as
our
own
,
an
age
grossly
carnal
in
its
pleasures
,
and
grossly
common
in
its
aims
...
.
He
was
a
marvellous
type
,
too
,
this
lad
,
whom
by
so
curious
a
chance
he
had
met
in
Basil
's
studio
;
or
could
be
fashioned
into
a
marvellous
type
,
at
any
rate
.
Grace
was
his
,
and
the
white
purity
of
boyhood
,
and
beauty
such
as
old
Greek
marbles
kept
for
us
.
There
was
nothing
that
one
could
not
do
with
him
.
He
could
be
made
a
Titan
or
a
toy
.
What
a
pity
it
was
that
such
beauty
was
destined
to
fade
!
...
And
Basil
?
From
a
psychological
point
of
view
,
how
interesting
he
was
!
The
new
manner
in
art
,
the
fresh
mode
of
looking
at
life
,
suggested
so
strangely
by
the
merely
visible
presence
of
one
who
was
unconscious
of
it
all
;
the
silent
spirit
that
dwelt
in
dim
woodland
,
and
walked
unseen
in
open
field
,
suddenly
showing
herself
,
Dryad-like
and
not
afraid
,
because
in
his
soul
who
sought
for
her
there
had
been
wakened
that
wonderful
vision
to
which
alone
are
wonderful
things
revealed
;
the
mere
shapes
and
patterns
of
things
becoming
,
as
it
were
,
refined
,
and
gaining
a
kind
of
symbolical
value
,
as
though
they
were
themselves
patterns
of
some
other
and
more
perfect
form
whose
shadow
they
made
real
:
how
strange
it
all
was
!
He
remembered
something
like
it
in
history
.
Was
it
not
Plato
,
that
artist
in
thought
,
who
had
first
analysed
it
?
Was
it
not
Buonarotti
who
had
carved
it
in
the
coloured
marbles
of
a
sonnet-sequence
?
But
in
our
own
century
it
was
strange
...
.
Yes
;
he
would
try
to
be
to
Dorian
Gray
what
,
without
knowing
it
,
the
lad
was
to
the
painter
who
had
fashioned
the
wonderful
portrait
.
He
would
seek
to
dominate
him
--
had
already
,
indeed
,
half
done
so
.
He
would
make
that
wonderful
spirit
his
own
.
There
was
something
fascinating
in
this
son
of
Love
and
Death
.
Suddenly
he
stopped
,
and
glanced
up
at
the
houses
.
He
found
that
he
had
passed
his
aunt
's
some
distance
,
and
,
smiling
to
himself
,
turned
back
.
When
he
entered
the
somewhat
sombre
hall
the
butler
told
him
that
they
had
gone
in
to
lunch
.
He
gave
one
of
the
footmen
his
hat
and
stick
,
and
passed
into
the
dining-room
.
"
Late
as
usual
,
Harry
,
"
cried
his
aunt
,
shaking
her
head
at
him
.
He
invented
a
facile
excuse
,
and
having
taken
the
vacant
seat
next
to
her
,
looked
round
to
see
who
was
there
.
Dorian
bowed
to
him
shyly
from
the
end
of
the
table
,
a
flush
of
pleasure
stealing
into
his
cheek
.
Opposite
was
the
Duchess
of
Harley
;
a
lady
of
admirable
good-nature
and
good
temper
,
much
liked
by
everyone
who
knew
her
,
and
of
those
ample
architectural
proportions
that
in
women
who
are
not
Duchesses
are
described
by
contemporary
historians
as
stoutness
.
Next
to
her
sat
,
on
her
right
,
Sir
Thomas
Burdon
,
a
Radical
member
of
Parliament
,
who
followed
his
leader
in
public
life
,
and
in
private
life
followed
the
best
cooks
,
dining
with
the
Tories
,
and
thinking
with
the
Liberals
,
in
accordance
with
a
wise
and
well-known
rule
.
The
post
on
her
left
was
occupied
by
Mr.
Erskine
of
Treadley
,
an
old
gentleman
of
considerable
charm
and
culture
,
who
had
fallen
,
however
,
into
bad
habits
of
silence
,
having
,
as
he
explained
once
to
Lady
Agatha
,
said
everything
that
he
had
to
say
before
he
was
thirty
.
His
own
neighbour
was
Mrs.
Vandeleur
,
one
of
his
aunt
's
oldest
friends
,
a
perfect
saint
amongst
women
,
but
so
dreadfully
dowdy
that
she
reminded
one
of
a
badly
bound
hymn-book
.
Fortunately
for
him
she
had
on
the
other
side
Lord
Faudel
,
a
most
intelligent
middle-aged
mediocrity
,
as
bald
as
a
Ministerial
statement
in
the
House
of
Commons
,
with
whom
she
was
conversing
in
that
intensely
earnest
manner
which
is
the
one
unpardonable
error
,
as
he
remarked
once
himself
,
that
all
really
good
people
fall
into
,
and
from
which
none
of
them
ever
quite
escape
.
"
We
are
talking
about
poor
Dartmoor
,
Lord
Henry
,
"
cried
the
Duchess
,
nodding
pleasantly
to
him
across
the
table
.
"
Do
you
think
he
will
really
marry
this
fascinating
young
person
?
"
"
I
believe
she
has
made
up
her
mind
to
propose
to
him
,
Duchess
.
"
"
How
dreadful
!
"
exclaimed
Lady
Agatha
.
"
Really
,
someone
should
interfere
.
"
"
I
am
told
,
on
excellent
authority
,
that
her
father
keeps
an
American
dry-goods
store
,
"
said
Sir
Thomas
Burdon
,
looking
supercilious
.
