Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Myson,don’tsaysuchdreadfulthings,"murmuredMrs.Vane,takingupatawdrytheatricaldress,withasigh,andbeginningtopatchit. Shefeltalittledisappointedthathehadnotjoinedthegroup. Itwouldhaveincreasedthetheatricalpicturesquenessofthesituation. 

           "Whynot,mother?Imeanit." 

           "Youpainme,myson. ItrustyouwillreturnfromAustraliainapositionofaffluence. IbelievethereisnosocietyofanykindintheColonies,nothingthatIwouldcallsociety; sowhenyouhavemadeyourfortuneyoumustcomebackandassertyourselfinLondon." 

           "Society!"mutteredthelad."Idon’twanttoknowanythingaboutthat. IshouldliketomakesomemoneytotakeyouandSibyloffthestage.Ihateit." 

           "Oh,Jim!"saidSibyl,laughing,"howunkindofyou! Butareyoureallygoingforawalkwithme?Thatwillbenice! Iwasafraidyouweregoingtosaygood-byetosomeofyourfriends—toTomHardy,whogaveyouthathideouspipe,orNedLangton,whomakesfunofyouforsmokingit. Itisverysweetofyoutoletmehaveyourlastafternoon. Whereshallwego?LetusgotothePark." 

           "Iamtooshabby,"heanswered,frowning."OnlyswellpeoplegotothePark." 

           "Nonsense,Jim,"shewhispered,strokingthesleeveofhiscoat. 

           Hehesitatedforamoment."Verywell,"hesaidatlast,"butdon’tbetoolongdressing." Shedancedoutofthedoor.Onecouldhearhersingingassheranupstairs.Herlittlefeetpatteredoverhead.