ed things that are worth touching, Dorian," said
Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "But why should
you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When one is
in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends
by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. You know
her, at any rate, I suppose?"

"Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the
horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over, and
offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was
furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of
years, and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think,
from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the impression that
I had taken too much champagne, or something."

"I am not surprised."

"Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I
never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and
confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy
against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought."

"I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other
hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all
expensive."

"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed Dorian.
"By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,
and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly
recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the
place again. When he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that I
was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he
had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an
air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to 'The
Bard,' as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a
distinction."

"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction. Most people
become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of
life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. But when did
you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"

"The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going
round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me; at least
I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined
to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know