“Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.  “That is one of the most important secrets of life.  I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake.  One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.  But let us pass from poor Basil.  I wish I could believe that he had come to such a really romantic end as you suggest, but I can’t.  I dare say he fell into the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the scandal.  Yes:  I should fancy that was his end.  I see him lying now on his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating over him and long weeds catching in his hair.  Do you know, I don’t think he would have done much more good work.  During the last ten years his painting had gone off very much.”

Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo perch.  As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards and forwards.

“Yes,” he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket; “his painting had quite gone off.  It seemed to me to have lost something.  It had lost an ideal.  When you and he ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist.  What was it separated you?  I suppose he bored you.  If so, he never forgave you.  It’s a habit bores have.  By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he did of you?  I don’t think I have ever seen it since he finished it.  Oh!  I remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way.  You never got it back?  What a pity! it was really a masterpiece.  I remember I wanted to buy it.  I wish I had now.  It belonged to Basil’s best period.  Since then, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative British artist.  Did you advertise for it?  You should.”

“I forget,” said Dorian.  “I suppose I did.  But I never really liked it.  I am sorry I sat for it.  The memory of the thing is hateful to me.  Why do you talk of it?  It used to remind me of those curious lines in some play—­Hamlet, I think—­how do they run?—­

    “Like the painting of a sorrow,
     A face without a heart.”

Yes:  that is what it was like.”

Lord Henry laughed.  “If a man treats life artistically,
his brain is his heart,” he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.

Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.  “‘Like the painting of a sorrow,’” he repeated, “’a face without a heart.’”

The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes.  “By the way, Dorian,” he said after a pause, “’what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose—­how does the quotation run?—­ his own soul’?”