“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I will never forgive you!” cried Dorian Gray.  “And I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”

“You know the picture is yours, Dorian.  I gave it to you before it existed.”

“And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don’t really mind being called a boy.”

“I should have minded very much this morning, Lord Henry.”

“Ah! this morning!  You have lived since then.”

There came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table.  There was a [21] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.  Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page.  Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out.  The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers.

“Let us go to the theatre to-night,” said Lord Henry.  “There is sure to be something on, somewhere.  I have promised to dine at White’s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement.  I think that would be a rather nice excuse:  it would have the surprise of candor.”

“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward.  “And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.”

“Yes,” answered Lord Henry, dreamily, “the costume of our day is detestable.  It is so sombre, so depressing.  Sin is the only color-element left in modern life.”

“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”

“Before which Dorian?  The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?”

“Before either.”

“I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,” said the lad.

“Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won’t you?”

“I can’t, really.  I would sooner not.  I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”

“I should like that awfully.”

Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture.  “I will stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly.

“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, running across to him.  “Am I really like that?”

“Yes; you are just like that.”

“How wonderful, Basil!”

“At least you are like it in appearance.  But it will never alter,” said Hallward.  “That is something.”

“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” murmured Lord Henry.

“And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology.  It has nothing to do with our own will.  It is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament.  Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot:  that is all one can say.”