Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room.  Yes:  it was certainly a tedious party.  Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess’s daughter, a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of ideas.

He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:  “How horrid of Henry Wotton to be so late!  I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me.”

It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.

But at dinner he could not eat anything.  Plate after plate went away untasted.  Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called “an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the menu specially for you,” and now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner.  From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne.  He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.

“Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the chaud-froid was being handed round, “what is the matter with you to-night?  You are quite out of sorts.”

“I believe he is in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous.  He is quite right.  I certainly should.”

“Dear Lady Narborough,” murmured Dorian, smiling, “I have not been in love for a whole week—­not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.”

“How you men can fall in love with that woman!” exclaimed the old lady.  “I really cannot understand it.”

“It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry.  “She is the one link between us and your short frocks.”

“She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry.  But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how decolletee she was then.”

“She is still decolletee,” he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; “and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an edition de luxe of a bad French novel.  She is really wonderful, and full of surprises.  Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.  When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.”