Russian intrigues: very successful man... wife killed by an elephant... quite inconsolable... wants to marry a beautiful American widow... everybody does nowadays... hates Mr. Gladstone... but very much interested in beetles: ask him what he thinks of Schouvaloff.’ I simply fled. I like to find out people for myself. But poor Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know. But what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”

“Oh, she murmured, ‘Charming boy… poor dear mother and I quite inseparable… engaged to be married to the same man… I mean married on the same day… how very silly of me! Quite forget what he does… afraid he… doesn’t do anything… oh, yes, plays the piano… or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’ We could neither of us help laughing, and we became friends at once.”

“Laughter is not a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is the best ending for one,” said Lord Henry, plucking another daisy.

Hallward buried his face in his hands. “You don’t understand what friendship is, Harry,” he murmured, “or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.”

“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains. A man can’t be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain.”

“I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance.”

“My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.”

“And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?”

“Oh, brothers! I don’t care for brothers. My elder brother won’t die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.”

“Harry!”

“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can’t help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that we can’t stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper classes.