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Sometimes
when
he
was
down
at
his
great
house
in
Nottinghamshire
,
entertaining
the
fashionable
young
men
of
his
own
rank
who
were
his
chief
companions
,
and
astounding
the
county
by
the
wanton
luxury
and
gorgeous
splendour
of
his
mode
of
life
,
he
would
suddenly
leave
his
guests
and
rush
back
to
town
to
see
that
the
door
had
not
been
tampered
with
,
and
that
the
picture
was
still
there
.
What
if
it
should
be
stolen
?
The
mere
thought
made
him
cold
with
horror
.
Surely
the
world
would
know
his
secret
then
.
Perhaps
the
world
already
suspected
it
.
For
,
while
he
fascinated
many
,
there
were
not
a
few
who
distrusted
him
.
He
was
very
nearly
blackballed
at
a
West
End
club
of
which
his
birth
and
social
position
fully
entitled
him
to
become
a
member
,
and
it
was
said
that
on
one
occasion
when
he
was
brought
by
a
friend
into
the
smoking-room
of
the
Churchill
,
the
Duke
of
Berwick
and
another
gentleman
got
up
in
a
marked
manner
and
went
out
.
Curious
stories
became
current
about
him
after
he
had
passed
his
twenty-fifth
year
.
It
was
rumoured
that
he
had
been
seen
brawling
with
foreign
sailors
in
a
low
den
in
the
distant
parts
of
Whitechapel
,
and
that
he
consorted
with
thieves
and
coiners
and
knew
the
mysteries
of
their
trade
.
His
extraordinary
absences
became
notorious
,
and
,
when
he
used
to
reappear
again
in
society
,
men
would
whisper
to
each
other
in
corners
,
or
pass
him
with
a
sneer
,
or
look
at
him
with
cold
searching
eyes
,
as
though
they
were
determined
to
discover
his
secret
.
Of
such
insolences
and
attempted
slights
he
,
of
course
,
took
no
notice
,
and
in
the
opinion
of
most
people
his
frank
debonair
manner
,
his
charming
boyish
smile
,
and
the
infinite
grace
of
that
wonderful
youth
that
seemed
never
to
leave
him
,
were
in
themselves
a
sufficient
answer
to
the
calumnies
,
for
so
they
termed
them
,
that
were
circulated
about
him
.
It
was
remarked
,
however
,
that
some
of
those
who
had
been
most
intimate
with
him
appeared
,
after
a
time
,
to
shun
him
.
Women
who
had
wildly
adored
him
,
and
for
his
sake
had
braved
all
social
censure
and
set
convention
at
defiance
,
were
seen
to
grow
pallid
with
shame
or
horror
if
Dorian
Gray
entered
the
room
.
Yet
these
whispered
scandals
only
increased
,
in
the
eyes
of
many
,
his
strange
and
dangerous
charm
.
His
great
wealth
was
a
certain
element
of
security
.
Society
,
civilised
society
at
least
,
is
never
very
ready
to
believe
anything
to
the
detriment
of
those
who
are
both
rich
and
fascinating
.
It
feels
instinctively
that
manners
are
of
more
importance
than
morals
,
and
,
in
its
opinion
,
the
highest
respectability
is
of
much
less
value
than
the
possession
of
a
good
chef
.
And
,
after
all
,
it
is
a
very
poor
consolation
to
be
told
that
the
man
who
has
given
one
a
bad
dinner
,
or
poor
wine
,
is
irreproachable
in
his
private
life
.
Even
the
cardinal
virtues
can
not
atone
for
half-cold
entrées
,
as
Lord
Henry
remarked
once
,
in
a
discussion
on
the
subject
;
and
there
is
possibly
a
good
deal
to
be
said
for
his
view
.
For
the
canons
of
good
society
are
,
or
should
be
,
the
same
as
the
canons
of
art
.
Form
is
absolutely
essential
to
it
.
It
should
have
the
dignity
of
a
ceremony
,
as
well
as
its
unreality
,
and
should
combine
the
insincere
character
of
a
romantic
play
with
the
wit
and
beauty
that
make
such
plays
delightful
to
us
.
Is
insincerity
such
a
terrible
thing
?
I
think
not
.
It
is
merely
a
method
by
which
we
can
multiply
our
personalities
.
Such
,
at
any
rate
,
was
Dorian
Gray
's
opinion
.
He
used
to
wonder
at
the
shallow
psychology
of
those
who
conceive
the
Ego
in
man
as
a
thing
simple
,
permanent
,
reliable
,
and
of
one
essence
.
To
him
,
man
was
a
being
with
myriad
lives
and
myriad
sensations
,
a
complex
multiform
creature
that
bore
within
itself
strange
legacies
of
thought
and
passion
,
and
whose
very
flesh
was
tainted
with
the
monstrous
maladies
of
the
dead
.
He
loved
to
stroll
through
the
gaunt
cold
picture-gallery
of
his
country
house
and
look
at
the
various
portraits
of
those
whose
blood
flowed
in
his
veins
.
Here
was
Philip
Herbert
,
described
by
Francis
Osborne
,
in
his
"
Memoires
on
the
Reigns
of
Queen
Elizabeth
and
King
James
,
"
as
one
who
was
"
caressed
by
the
Court
for
his
handsome
face
,
which
kept
him
not
long
company
.
"
Was
it
young
Herbert
's
life
that
he
sometimes
led
?
Had
some
strange
poisonous
germ
crept
from
body
to
body
till
it
had
reached
his
own
?
Was
it
some
dim
sense
of
that
ruined
grace
that
had
made
him
so
suddenly
,
and
almost
without
cause
,
give
utterance
,
in
Basil
Hallward
's
studio
,
to
the
mad
prayer
that
had
so
changed
his
life
?
Here
,
in
gold-embroidered
red
doublet
,
jewelled
surcoat
,
and
gilt-edged
ruff
and
wrist-bands
,
stood
Sir
Anthony
Sherard
,
with
his
silver-and-black
armour
piled
at
his
feet
.
What
had
this
man
's
legacy
been
?
Had
the
lover
of
Giovanna
of
Naples
bequeathed
him
some
inheritance
of
sin
and
shame
?
Were
his
own
actions
merely
the
dreams
that
the
dead
man
had
not
dared
to
realise
?
Here
,
from
the
fading
canvas
,
smiled
Lady
Elizabeth
Devereux
,
in
her
gauze
hood
,
pearl
stomacher
,
and
pink
slashed
sleeves
.
A
flower
was
in
her
right
hand
,
and
her
left
clasped
an
enamelled
collar
of
white
and
damask
roses
.
On
a
table
by
her
side
lay
a
mandolin
and
an
apple
.
There
were
large
green
rosettes
upon
her
little
pointed
shoes
.
He
knew
her
life
,
and
the
strange
stories
that
were
told
about
her
lovers
.
Had
he
something
of
her
temperament
in
him
?
These
oval
heavy-lidded
eyes
seemed
to
look
curiously
at
him
.
What
of
George
Willoughby
,
with
his
powdered
hair
and
fantastic
patches
?
How
evil
he
looked
!
The
face
was
saturnine
and
swarthy
,
and
the
sensual
lips
seemed
to
be
twisted
with
disdain
.
Delicate
lace
ruffles
fell
over
the
lean
yellow
hands
that
were
so
over-laden
with
rings
.
He
had
been
a
macaroni
of
the
eighteenth
century
,
and
the
friend
,
in
his
youth
,
of
Lord
Ferrars
.
What
of
the
second
Lord
Beckenham
,
the
companion
of
the
Prince
Regent
in
his
wildest
days
,
and
one
of
the
witnesses
at
the
secret
marriage
with
Mrs.
Fitzherbert
?
How
proud
and
handsome
he
was
,
with
his
chestnut
curls
and
insolent
pose
!
What
passions
had
he
bequeathed
?
The
world
had
looked
upon
him
as
infamous
.
He
had
led
the
orgies
at
Carlton
House
.
The
star
of
the
Garter
glittered
upon
his
breast
.
Beside
him
hung
the
portrait
of
his
wife
,
a
pallid
,
thin-lipped
woman
in
black
.
Her
blood
,
also
,
stirred
within
him
.
How
curious
it
all
seemed
!
And
his
mother
with
her
Lady
Hamilton
face
,
and
her
moist
wine-dashed
lips
--
he
knew
what
he
had
got
from
her
.
He
had
got
from
her
his
beauty
,
and
his
passion
for
the
beauty
of
others
.
She
laughed
at
him
in
her
loose
Bacchante
dress
.
There
were
vine
leaves
in
her
hair
.
The
purple
spilled
from
the
cup
she
was
holding
.
The
carnations
of
the
painting
had
withered
,
but
the
eyes
were
still
wonderful
in
their
depth
and
brilliancy
of
colour
.
They
seemed
to
follow
him
wherever
he
went
.
Yet
one
had
ancestors
in
literature
,
as
well
as
in
one
's
own
race
,
nearer
perhaps
in
type
and
temperament
,
many
of
them
,
and
certainly
with
an
influence
of
which
one
was
more
absolutely
conscious
.
There
were
times
when
it
appeared
to
Dorian
Gray
that
the
whole
of
history
was
merely
the
record
of
his
own
life
,
not
as
he
had
lived
it
in
act
and
circumstance
,
but
as
his
imagination
had
created
it
for
him
,
as
it
had
been
in
his
brain
and
in
his
passions
.
He
felt
that
he
had
known
them
all
,
those
strange
terrible
figures
that
had
passed
across
the
stage
of
the
world
and
made
sin
so
marvellous
,
and
evil
so
full
of
subtlety
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
in
some
mysterious
way
their
lives
had
been
his
own
.
