CHAPTER XVII.

AweeklaterDorianGraywassittingintheconservatoryatSelbyRoyal,talkingtotheprettyDuchessofMonmouth,whowithherhusband,ajaded-lookingmanofsixty,wasamongsthisguests.Itwastea-time,andthemellowlightofthehuge,lace-coveredlampthatstoodonthetablelitupthedelicatechinaandhammeredsilveroftheserviceatwhichtheduchesswaspresiding.Herwhitehandsweremovingdaintilyamongthecups,andherfullredlipsweresmilingatsomethingthatDorianhadwhisperedtoher.LordHenrywaslyingbackinasilk-drapedwickerchair,lookingatthem.Onapeach-coloureddivansatLadyNarborough,pretendingtolistentotheduke’sdescriptionofthelastBrazilianbeetlethathehadaddedtohiscollection.Threeyoungmeninelaboratesmoking-suitswerehandingtea-cakestosomeofthewomen.Thehouse-partyconsistedoftwelvepeople,andthereweremoreexpectedtoarriveonthenextday. “Whatareyoutwotalkingabout?”saidLordHenry,strollingovertothetableandputtinghiscupdown.“IhopeDorianhastoldyouaboutmyplanforrechristeningeverything,Gladys.Itisadelightfulidea.” “ButIdon’twanttoberechristened,Harry,”rejoinedtheduchess,lookingupathimwithherwonderfuleyes.“Iamquitesatisfiedwithmyownname,andIamsureMr.Grayshouldbesatisfiedwithhis.” “MydearGladys,Iwouldnotaltereithernamefortheworld.Theyarebothperfect.Iwasthinkingchieflyofflowers.YesterdayIcutanorchid,formybutton-hole.Itwasamarvellousspottedthing,aseffectiveasthesevendeadlysins.InathoughtlessmomentIaskedoneofthegardenerswhatitwascalled.HetoldmeitwasafinespecimenofRobinsoniana,orsomethingdreadfulofthatkind.Itisasadtruth,butwehavelostthefacultyofgivinglovelynamestothings.Namesareeverything.Ineverquarrelwithactions.Myonequarreliswithwords.ThatisthereasonIhatevulgarrealisminliterature.Themanwhocouldcallaspadeaspadeshouldbecompelledtouseone.Itistheonlythingheisfitfor.” “Thenwha