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‘My dear Basil,’ cried Dorian, ‘what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you liked me too much. That is not even a compliment.’

‘It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession.’

‘A very disappointing one.’

‘Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?’

‘No: there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t talk about not meeting me again, or anything of that kind. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so.’

‘You have got Harry,’ said Hallward, sadly.

‘Oh, Harry!’ cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. ‘Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don’t think I would go to Harry if I was in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil.’

‘But you won’t sit to me again?’

‘Impossible!’

‘You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one.’

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