rd in Verona."

Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what
particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what did
she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it."

"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did
not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said
she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is
nothing to me compared with her."

"Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry--"much more
practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say
anything about marriage, and they always remind us."

Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed
Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon
anyone. His nature is too fine for that."

Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me,"
he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the
only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question--simple
curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to
us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of course, in
middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern."

Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible,
Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you
see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a
beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how anyone can wish
to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to place her on a
pedestal of gold, and to see the world worship the woman who is mine.
What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for that. Ah! don't
mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust makes me
faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all
that you have taught me. I become different from what you have known me
to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane's hand makes me
forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful
theories."

"And those are...?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.

"Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories
about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry."

"Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered,
in his slow, melodious voice. "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory
as my own