“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George.  I want to get something out of you.”

“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.  “Well, sit down and tell me all about it.  Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything.”

“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; “and when they grow older they know it.  But I don’t want money.  It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine.  Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it.  Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me.  What I want is information:  not useful information, of course; useless information.”

“Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense.  When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better.  But I hear they let them in now by examination.  What can you expect?  Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end.  If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.”

“Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,” said Lord Henry languidly.

“Mr. Dorian Gray?  Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows.

“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George.  Or rather, I know who he is.  He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson.  His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereaux.  I want you to tell me about his mother.  What was she like?  Whom did she marry?  You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her.  I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present.  I have only just met him.”

“Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the old gentleman.  “Kelso’s grandson! ...  Of course....  I knew his mother intimately.  I believe I was at her christening.  She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow—­ a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind.  Certainly.  I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday.  The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage.  There was an ugly story about it.  They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public—­paid him, sir, to do it, paid him—­ and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon.  The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards.  He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again.  Oh, yes; it was a bad business.  The girl died, too, died within a year.  So she left a son, did she?  I had forgotten that.  What sort of boy is he?  If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap.”