ce him to you. He is quite
delightful and rather reminds me of you."

"I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired
to-night, Harry. I shan't go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I
want to go to bed early."

"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was
something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression
than I had ever heard from it before."

"It is because 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 moralize. 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 20

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 G