s remarked, however, that some of those who had been most
intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had
wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and
set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or
horror if Dorian Gray entered the room.

Yet these whispered scandals only increased, in the eyes of many, his
strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of
security. Society, civilised society at least, is never very ready to
believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and
fascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance
than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much
less value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is a
very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad
dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the
cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrees_, as Lord Henry
remarked once, in a discussion on the subject; and there is possibly a
good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are,
or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely
essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as
its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic
play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is
insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by
which we can multiply our personalities.

Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray's opinion. He used to wonder at the
shallow psychology of those who conceive the Ego in man as a thing
simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a being
with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature
that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and
whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. He
loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country
house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in
his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by Francis Osborne, in
his "Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James," as one
who was "caressed by the Court for his handsome face, which kept him not
long company." Was it young Herbert's life that he sometimes led? Had
some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached
hi