For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.  He was blackballed at a West End club of which his birth and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the Carlton, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out.  Curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year.  It was said that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade.  His extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as if they were determined to discover his secret.

Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies (for so they called them) that were circulated about him.  It was remarked, however, that those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him.  Of all his friends, or so-called friends, Lord Henry Wotton was the only one who remained loyal to him.  Women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if Dorian Gray entered the room.

Yet these whispered scandals only lent him, in the eyes of many, his strange and dangerous charm.  His great wealth was a certain element of security.  Society, civilized society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and charming.  It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and the highest respectability is of less value in its opinion than the possession of a good chef.  And, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life.  Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for cold entrees, as Lord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject; and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view.  For the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art.  Form is absolutely essential to it.  It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays charming.  Is insincerity such a [75] terrible thing?  I think not.  It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities.