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‘Let us go to the theatre to-night,’ said Lord Henry. ‘There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor.’

‘It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,’ muttered Hallward. ‘And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.’

‘Yes,’ answered Lord Henry, dreamily, ‘the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only colorelement left in modern life.’

‘You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.’

‘Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?’

‘Before either.’

‘I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,’ said the lad.

‘Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won’t you?’

‘I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.’

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