One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair.  It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs.  On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device.  Some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London.

Lord Henry had not yet come in.  He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time.  So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases.  The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him.  Once or twice he thought of going away.

At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened.  “How late you are, Harry!” he murmured.

“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” answered a shrill voice.

He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet.  “I beg your pardon.  I thought—­”

“You thought it was my husband.  It is only his wife.  You must let me introduce myself.  I know you quite well by your photographs.  I think my husband has got seventeen of them.”

“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?”

“Well, eighteen, then.  And I saw you with him the other night at the opera.”  She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes.  She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.  She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions.  She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.  Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church.

“That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?”

“Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin.  I like Wagner’s music better than anybody’s.  It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says.  That is a great advantage, don’t you think so, Mr. Gray?”

The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.

Dorian smiled and shook his head:  “I am afraid I don’t think so, Lady Henry.  I never talk during music—­at least, during good music.  If one hears bad music, it is one’s duty to drown it in conversation.”