g that you say."

"Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause.

"With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace
debut."

"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry."

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Sibyl Vane."

"Never heard of her."

"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius."

"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They
never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women
represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the
triumph of mind over morals."

"Harry, how can you?"

"My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so
I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was.
I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain
and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to
gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down
to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one
mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our
grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rouge and
esprit used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman
can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly
satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London
worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent
society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known
her?"

"Ah! Harry, your views terrify me."

"Never mind that. How long have you known her?"

"About three weeks."

"And where did you come across her?"

"I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it.
After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You
filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days
after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged
in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one
who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they
led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There
was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations....
Well, one evening about seven o'clock, I determined to go out in search
of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours,
with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and i