“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her, as she flitted out of the room, looking like a bird-of-paradise that had been out in the rain, and leaving a faint odor of patchouli behind her.  Then he shook hands with Dorian Gray, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on the sofa.

[24] “Never marry a woman with straw-colored hair, Dorian,” he said, after a few puffs.

“Why, Harry?”

“Because they are so sentimental.”

“But I like sentimental people.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian.  Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious:  both are disappointed.”

“I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry.  I am too much in love.  That is one of your aphorisms.  I am putting it into practice, as I do everything you say.”

“Whom are you in love with?” said Lord Henry, looking at him with a curious smile.

“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  “That is a rather common-place debut,” he murmured.

“You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”

“Never heard of her.”

“No one has.  People will some day, however.  She is a genius.”

“My dear boy, no woman is a genius:  women are a decorative sex.  They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly.  They represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as we men represent the triumph of mind over morals.  There are only two kinds of women, the plain and the colored.  The plain women are very useful.  If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper.  The other women are very charming.  They commit one mistake, however.  They paint in order to try to look young.  Our grandmothers painted in order to try to talk brilliantly.  Rouge and esprit used to go together.  That has all gone out now.  As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied.  As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can’t be admitted into decent society.  However, tell me about your genius.  How long have you known her?”

“About three weeks.  Not so much.  About two weeks and two days.”

“How did you come across her?”

“I will tell you, Harry; but you mustn’t be unsympathetic about it.  After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you.  You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life.  For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins.  As I lounged in the Park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me, and wonder with a mad curiosity what sort of lives they led.  Some of them fascinated me.  Others filled me with terror.  There was an exquisite poison in the air.  I had a passion for sensations.