clergyman of some importance, the only one I ever met. I
was fond of going to church, and I was in agony lest some strange
expression should come into my face and tell my horrible secret. I
dreaded above all lest my mother should ever get to know it. It would
have made her so happy."

"Did she?"

"No, never. The precentor died, and my virtue died with him. But you are
quite right, Reggie; a virtue is like a city set upon a hill, it cannot
be hid. We can conceal our vices if we care to, for a time at least. We
can take our beautiful purple sin like a candle and hide it under a
bushel. But a virtue will out. Virtuous people always have odd noses,
or holy mouths, or a religious walk. Nothing in the world is so painful
as to see a good man masquerading in the company of sinners. He may
drink and blaspheme, he may robe himself in scarlet, and dance the
_can-can_, but he is always virtuous. The mind of the _moulin
rouge_ is not his. Wickedness does not sit easily upon him. It looks
like a coat that has been paid for."

"Esme, you are getting drunk!"

"What makes you think so, Reggie?"

"Because you are so brilliant. Go on. The night is growing late. Soon
the silver dawn will steal along the river, and touch with radiance
those monstrosities upon the Thames Embankment. John Stuart Mill's badly
fitting frockcoat will glow like the golden fleece, and the absurd
needle of Cleopatra will be barred with scarlet and with orange. The
flagstaff in the Victoria Tower will glitter like an angel's ladder, and
the murmur of Covent Garden will be as the murmur of the flowing tide.
Oh! Esme, when you are drunk, I could listen to you for ever. Go on--go
on!"

"Remember my epigrams then, dear boy, and repeat them to me to-morrow. I
am dining out with Oscar Wilde, and that is only to be done with prayer
and fasting. Waiter, open another bottle of champagne, and bring some
more strawberries. Yes, it is not easy to be wicked, although stupid
people think so. To sin beautifully, as you sin, Reggie, and as I have
sinned for years, is one of the most complicated of the arts. There are
hardly six people in a century who can master it. Sin has its technique,
just as painting has its technique. Sin has its harmonies and its
dissonances, as music has its harmonies and its dissonances. The amateur
sinner, the mere bungler whom we meet with, alas! so frequently, is
perpetually introducing consecutive fifths and octaves into his music,
perpetually