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with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well informed man and his mind is a dreadful thing. Some day you will look at your friend, and he will seems to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won’t like this tone of color, or something. The next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance—a romance of art one might call it. And the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic.”

“Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can’t feel what I feel. You change too often.”

“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love. It is the faithless who know love’s tragedies.” Lord Wotton struck a light on a dainty silver case and began to smoke a cigarette. Then an idea came to him. “I just remembered.”

“Remembered what, Harry?”

“Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.”

“Where was it?” Asked Basil, with a slight frown.

“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state that she never told me he was good looking. Women have no appreciation of such things. At least, good women have not. She said that he was very earnest and had

JOHN GRAVAGLIA

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