“Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,” said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.

“I could not get rid of her.  She brought me up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and parrot noses.  She spoke of me as her dearest friend.  I had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me.  I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality.  Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me.  We were quite close, almost touching.  Our eyes met again.  It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.  Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all.  It was simply inevitable.  We would have spoken to each other without any introduction.  I am sure of that.  Dorian told me so afterwards.  He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other.”

“And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?” asked his companion.  “I know she goes in for giving a rapid precis of all her guests.  I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, the most astounding details.  I simply fled.  I like to find out people for myself.  But Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods.  She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know.”

“Poor Lady Brandon!  You are hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward listlessly.

“My dear fellow, she tried to found a salon, and only succeeded in opening a restaurant.  How could I admire her?  But tell me, what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”

“Oh, something like, ’Charming boy—­poor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable.  Quite forget what he does—­afraid he—­ doesn’t do anything—­oh, yes, plays the piano—­or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.”

“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy.

Hallward shook his head.  “You don’t understand what friendship is, Harry,” he murmured—­“or what enmity is, for that matter.  You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.”

“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky.  “Yes; horribly unjust of you.  I make a great difference between people.  I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects.  A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.  I have not got one who is a fool.  They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me.  Is that very vain of me?  I think it is rather vain.”