CHAPTER 17

A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests.  It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding.  Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her.  Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them.  On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke’s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection.  Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women.  The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day.

“What are you two talking about?” said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down.  “I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys.  It is a delightful idea.”

“But I don’t want to be rechristened, Harry,” rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes.  “I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his.”

“My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world.  They are both perfect.  I was thinking chiefly of flowers.  Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole.  It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins.  In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called.  He told me it was a fine specimen of Robinsoniana, or something dreadful of that kind.  It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.  Names are everything.  I never quarrel with actions.  My one quarrel is with words.  That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature.  The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one.  It is the only thing he is fit for.”

“Then what should we call you, Harry?” she asked.

“His name is Prince Paradox,” said Dorian.

“I recognize him in a flash,” exclaimed the duchess.

“I won’t hear of it,” laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair.  “From a label there is no escape!  I refuse the title.”

“Royalties may not abdicate,” fell as a warning from pretty lips.

“You wish me to defend my throne, then?”

“Yes.”

“I give the truths of to-morrow.”

“I prefer the mistakes of to-day,” she answered.

“You disarm me, Gladys,” he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.

“Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear.”

“I never tilt against beauty,” he said, with a wave of his hand.