Chapter 3

           Oneafternoon,amonthlater,DorianGraywasreclininginaluxuriousarm-chair,inthelittlelibraryofLordHenry’shouseinMayfair. Itwas,initsway,averycharmingroom,withitshigh-panelledwainscotingofolive-stainedoak,itscream-colouredfriezeandceilingofraisedplaster-work, anditsbrickdustfeltcarpetstrewnwithsilklong-fringedPersianrugs. OnatinysatinwoodtablestoodastatuettebyClodion,andbesideitlayacopyof"LesCentNouvelles,"boundforMargaretofValoisbyClovisEve, andpowderedwiththegiltdaisiesthatQueenhadselectedforherdevice. Somelargebluechinajarsandparrot-tulipswererangedonthemantel-shelf, andthroughthesmallleadedpanelsofthewindowstreamedtheapricot-colouredlightofasummerdayinLondon. 

           LordHenryhadnotyetcomein.Hewasalwayslateonprinciple,hisprinciplebeingthatpunctualityisthethiefoftime. Sotheladwaslookingrathersulky,aswithlistlessfingersheturnedoverthepagesofanelaborately-illustratededitionof"ManonLescaut"thathehadfoundinoneofthebookcases. TheformalmonotonoustickingoftheLouisQuatorzeclockannoyedhim.Onceortwicehethoughtofgoingaway. 

           Atlastheheardastepoutside,andthedooropened. "Howlateyouare,Harry!"hemurmured. 

           "IamafraiditisnotHarry,Mr.Gray,"answeredashrillvoice. 

           Heglancedquicklyround,androsetohisfeet. "Ibegyourpardon.Ithought——" 

           "Youthoughtitwasmyhusband.Itisonlyhiswife.Youmustletmeintroducemyself. Iknowyouquitewellbyyourphotographs.Ithinkmyhusbandhasgotseventeenofthem."