Портрет Доріана Грея

           Mrs.Erlynne,apushingnobody,withadelightfullisp,andVenetian-redhair; LadyAliceChapman,hishostess’sdaughter,adowdydullgirl,withoneofthosecharacteristicBritishfaces,that,onceseen,areneverremembered; andherhusband,ared-cheeked,white-whiskeredcreaturewho,likesomanyofhisclass,wasundertheimpressionthatinordinatejovialitycanatoneforanentirelackofideas. 

           Hewasrathersorryhehadcome,tillLadyNarborough,lookingatthegreatormolugiltclockthatsprawledingaudycurvesonthemauve-drapedmantel-shelf,exclaimed: "HowhorridofHenryWottontobesolate! Isentroundtohimthismorningonchance,andhepromisedfaithfullynottodisappointme." 

           ItwassomeconsolationthatHarrywastobethere,andwhenthedooropenedandheheardhisslowmusicalvoicelendingcharmtosomeinsincereapology,heceasedtofeelbored. 

           Butatdinnerhecouldnoteatanything. Plateafterplatewentawayuntasted. LadyNarboroughkeptscoldinghimforwhatshecalled"aninsulttopoorAdolphe,whoinventedthemenuspeciallyforyou,"andnowandthenLordHenrylookedacrossathim,wonderingathissilenceandabstractedmanner. Fromtimetotimethebutlerfilledhisglasswithchampagne. Hedrankeagerly,andhisthirstseemedtoincrease. 

           "Dorian,"saidLordHenry,atlast,asthechaud-froidwasbeinghandedround,"whatisthematterwithyouto-night? Youarequiteoutofsorts." 

           "Ibelieveheisinlove,"criedLadyNarborough,"andthatheisafraidtotellmeforfearIshouldbejealous. Heisquiteright. Icertainlyshould."