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‘Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.’

‘I should like that awfully.’

Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. ‘I will stay with the real Dorian,’ he said, sadly.

‘Is it the real Dorian?’ cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. ‘Am I really like that?’

‘Yes; you are just like that.’

‘How wonderful, Basil!’

‘At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,’ said Hallward. ‘That is something.’

‘What a fuss people make about fidelity!’ murmured Lord Henry.

‘And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. It is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.’

‘Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,’ said Hallward. ‘Stop and dine with me.’

‘I can’t, really.’

‘Why?’

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