Hallward buried his face in his hands.  “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 were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk.  “Yes; horribly unjust of you.  I make a great difference between people.  I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains.  A man can’t 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.”

“I should think it was, Harry.  But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance.”

“My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.”

“And much less than a friend.  A sort of brother, I suppose?”

“Oh, brothers!  I don’t care for brothers.  My elder brother won’t die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.”

“Harry!”

“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious.  But I can’t help detesting my relations.  I suppose it comes from the fact that we can’t stand other people having the same faults as ourselves.  I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper classes.  They feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves.  When poor Southwark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation was quite magnificent.  And yet I don’t suppose that ten per cent of the lower orders live correctly.”

“I don’t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I don’t believe you do either.”

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane.  “How English you are, Basil!  If one puts forward an idea to a real Englishman,—­ always a rash thing to do,—­he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong.  The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it one’s self.  Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it.  Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it [9] will not be colored by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices.  However, I don’t propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you.  I like persons better than principles.  Tell me more about Dorian Gray.  How often do you see him?”