ecause I am going to be good," he answered, smiling, "I am a
little changed already."

"You cannot change to me, Dorian," said Lord Henry. "You and I will
always be friends."

"Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry,
promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm."

"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralise. You will soon be
going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people
against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too
delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we are,
and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is
no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It annihilates
the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that the world
calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all.
But we won't discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I am going to
ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you to lunch
afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and wants to
consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. Mind you
come. Or shall we lunch with our little Duchess? She says she never sees
you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you would be. Her
clever tongue gets on one's nerves. Well, in any case, be here at
eleven."

"Must I really come, Harry?"

"Certainly. The Park is quite lovely now. I don't think there have been
such lilacs since the year I met you."

"Very well. I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian. "Good-night,
Harry." As he reached the door he hesitated for a moment, as if he had
something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.

CHAPTER XX

It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm, and
did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,
smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He
heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He
remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared
at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the
charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that
no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to
love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her
once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him, and answered that
wicked people wer