a question
of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides
itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe, and
think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a
morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that
brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you
had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had
ceased to play--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that
our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own
senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of
_lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the
strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places with
you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always
worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the
age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad
that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a
picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your
art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets."

Dorian rose up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair.
"Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to have
the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to
me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if you did, even
you would turn from me. You laugh. Don't laugh."

"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne
over again. Look at that great honey-coloured moon that hangs in the
dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will
come closer to the earth. You won't? Let us go to the club, then. It has
been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is some
one at White's who wants immensely to know you--young Lord Poole,
Bournemouth's eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has
begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful, and rather
reminds me of you."

"I hope not," said Dorian, with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired
to-night, Harry. I shan't go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I
want to go to bed early."

"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was something
in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than I had ever
heard from it before."

"It is b