CHAPTER II.

AstheyenteredtheysawDorianGray.Hewasseatedatthepiano,withhisbacktothem,turningoverthepagesofavolumeofSchumann’s“ForestScenes.”“Youmustlendmethese,Basil,”hecried.“Iwanttolearnthem.Theyareperfectlycharming.” “Thatentirelydependsonhowyousitto-day,Dorian.” “Oh,Iamtiredofsitting,andIdon’twantalife-sizedportraitofmyself,”answeredthelad,swingingroundonthemusic-stoolinawilful,petulantmanner.WhenhecaughtsightofLordHenry,afaintblushcolouredhischeeksforamoment,andhestartedup.“Ibegyourpardon,Basil,butIdidn’tknowyouhadanyonewithyou.” “ThisisLordHenryWotton,Dorian,anoldOxfordfriendofmine.Ihavejustbeentellinghimwhatacapitalsitteryouwere,andnowyouhavespoiledeverything.” “Youhavenotspoiledmypleasureinmeetingyou,Mr.Gray,”saidLordHenry,steppingforwardandextendinghishand.“Myaunthasoftenspokentomeaboutyou.Youareoneofherfavourites,and,Iamafraid,oneofhervictimsalso.” “IaminLadyAgatha’sblackbooksatpresent,”answeredDorianwithafunnylookofpenitence.“IpromisedtogotoaclubinWhitechapelwithherlastTuesday,andIreallyforgotallaboutit.Weweretohaveplayedaduettogether—threeduets,Ibelieve.Idon’tknowwhatshewillsaytome.Iamfartoofrightenedtocall.” “Oh,Iwillmakeyourpeacewithmyaunt.Sheisquitedevotedtoyou.AndIdon’tthinkitreallymattersaboutyournotbeingthere.Theaudienceprobablythoughtitwasaduet.WhenAuntAgathasitsdowntothepiano,shemakesquiteenoughnoisefortwopeople.” “Thatisveryhorridtoher,andnotverynicetome,”answeredDorian,laughing. LordHenrylookedathim.Yes,hewascertainlywonderfullyhandsome,withhisfinelycurvedscarletlips,hisfrankblueeyes,hiscrispgoldhair.Therewassomethinginhisfacethatmadeonetrusthimatonce.Allthecandourofyouthwasthere,aswellasallyouth’spassionatepurity.Onefeltthathehadkepthimselfunspottedfromtheworld.NowonderBasilHallwardworshippedhim. “Youaretoocharmingtogoinforphilanthropy,Mr.Gray—fartoocharming.”AndLordHenryflunghimselfdownonthedivanandopenedhiscigarette-case. Thepainterhadbeenbusymixinghiscoloursandgettinghisbrushesready.Hewaslookingworried,andwhenheheardLordHenry’slastremark,heglancedathim,hesitatedforamoment,andthensaid,“Harry,Iwanttofinishthispictureto-day.WouldyouthinkitawfullyrudeofmeifIaskedyoutogoaway?” LordHenrysmiledandlookedatDorianGray.“AmItogo,Mr.Gray?”heasked. “Oh,pleasedon’t,LordHenry.IseethatBasilisinoneofhissulkymoods,andIcan’tbearhimwhenhesulks.Besides,IwantyoutotellmewhyIshouldnotgoinforphilanthropy.” “Idon’tknowthatIshalltellyouthat,Mr.Gray.Itissotediousasubjectthatonewouldhavetotalkseriouslyaboutit.ButIcertainlyshallnotrunaway,nowthatyouhaveaskedmetostop.Youdon’treallymind,Basil,doyou?Youhaveoftentoldmethatyoulikedyoursitterstohavesomeonetochatto.” Hallwardbithislip.“IfDorianwishesit,ofcourseyoumuststay.Dorian’swhimsarelawstoeverybody,excepthimself.” LordHenrytookuphishatandgloves.“Youareverypressing,Basil,butIamafraidImustgo.IhavepromisedtomeetamanattheOrleans.Good-bye,Mr.Gray.ComeandseemesomeafternooninCurzonStreet.Iamnearlyalwaysathomeatfiveo’clock.Writetomewhenyouarecoming.Ishouldbesorrytomissyou.” “Basil,”criedDorianGray,“ifLordHenryWottongoes,Ishallgo,too.Youneveropenyourlipswhileyouarepainting,anditishorriblydullstandingonaplatformandtryingtolookpleasant.Askhimtostay.Iinsistuponit.” “Stay,Harry,toobligeDorian,andtoobligeme,”saidHallward,gazingintentlyathispicture.“Itisquitetrue,InevertalkwhenIamworking,andneverlisteneither,anditmustbedreadfullytediousformyunfortunatesitters.Ibegyoutostay.” “ButwhataboutmymanattheOrleans?” Thepainterlaughed.“Idon’tthinktherewillbeanydifficultyaboutthat.Sitdownagain,Harry.Andnow,Dorian,getupontheplatform,anddon’tmoveabouttoomuch,orpayanyattentiontowhatLordHenrysays.Hehasaverybadinfluenceoverallhisfriends,withthesingleexceptionofmyself.” DorianGraysteppeduponthedaiswiththeairofayoungGreekmartyr,andmadealittlemoueofdiscontenttoLordHenry,towhomhehadrathertakenafancy.HewassounlikeBasil.Theymadeadelightfulcontrast.Andhehadsuchabeautifulvoice.Afterafewmomentshesaidtohim,“Haveyoureallyaverybadinfluence,LordHenry?AsbadasBasilsays?” “Thereisnosuchthingasagoodinfluence,Mr.Gray.Allinfluenceisimmoral—immoralfromthescientificpointofview.” “Why?” “Becausetoinfluenceapersonistogivehimone’sownsoul.Hedoesnotthinkhisnaturalthoughts,orburnwithhisnaturalpassions.Hisvirtuesarenotrealtohim.Hissins,iftherearesuchthingsassins,areborrowed.Hebecomesanechoofsomeoneelse’smusic,anactorofapartthathasnotbeenwrittenforhim.Theaimoflifeisself-development.Torealizeone’snatureperfectly—thatiswhateachofusisherefor.Peopleareafraidofthemselves,nowadays.Theyhaveforgottenthehighestofallduties,thedutythatoneowestoone’sself.Ofcourse,theyarecharitable.Theyfeedthehungryandclothethebeggar.Buttheirownsoulsstarve,andarenaked.Couragehasgoneoutofourrace.Perhapsweneverreallyhadit.Theterrorofsociety,whichisthebasisofmorals,theterrorofGod,whichisthesecretofreligion—thesearethetwothingsthatgovernus.Andyet—” “Justturnyourheadalittlemoretotheright,Dorian,likeagoodboy,”saidthepainter,deepinhisworkandconsciousonlythatalookhadcomeintothelad’sfacethathehadneverseen