Портрет Дориана Грея

           Dorianshruggedhisshoulders. "IbelievehemarriedLadyRadley’smaid,andhasestablishedherinParisasanEnglishdressmaker. Anglomanieisveryfashionableovertherenow,Ihear. ItseemssillyoftheFrench,doesn’tit? But—doyouknow?—hewasnotatallabadservant. Ineverlikedhim,butIhadnothingtocomplainabout. Oneoftenimaginesthingsthatarequiteabsurd.Hewasreallyverydevotedtome,andseemedquitesorrywhenhewentaway. Haveanotherbrandy-and-soda? Orwouldyoulikehock-and-seltzer? Ialwaystakehock-and-seltzermyself. Thereissuretobesomeinthenextroom." 

           "Thanks,Iwon’thaveanythingmore,"saidthepainter, takinghiscapandcoatoff,andthrowingthemonthebagthathehadplacedinthecorner. "Andnow,mydearfellow,Iwanttospeaktoyouseriously. Don’tfrownlikethat. Youmakeitsomuchmoredifficultforme." 

           "Whatisitallabout? "criedDorian,inhispetulantway,flinginghimselfdownonthesofa. "Ihopeitisnotaboutmyself. Iamtiredofmyselfto-night.Ishouldliketobesomebodyelse." 

           "Itisaboutyourself,"answeredHallward,inhisgrave,deepvoice,"andImustsayittoyou. Ishallonlykeepyouhalfanhour." 

           Doriansighed,andlitacigarette."Halfanhour!"hemurmured. 

           "Itisnotmuchtoaskofyou,Dorian,anditisentirelyforyourownsakethatIamspeaking. IthinkitrightthatyoushouldknowthatthemostdreadfulthingsarebeingsaidagainstyouinLondon." 

           "Idon’twishtoknowanythingaboutthem. Ilovescandalsaboutotherpeople,butscandalsaboutmyselfdon’tinterestme. Theyhavenotgotthecharmofnovelty."