not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him."

"Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue-books, Uncle George," said Lord
Henry, languidly.

"Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy
white eyebrows.

"That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who
he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a Devereux;
Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was
she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your
time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray
at present. I have only just met him."

"Kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman.--"Kelso's grandson!... Of
course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her
christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret
Devereux; and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless
young fellow; a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or
something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it
happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa, a few
months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said
Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his
son-in-law in public; paid him, sir, to do it, paid him; and that the
fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed
up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time
afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she
never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died
too; died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten
that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother he must be a
good-looking chap."

"He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry.

"I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "He
should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing
by him. His mother had money too. All the Selby property came to her,
through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean
dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was
ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was
always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a
story of it. I didn't dare to show my face at Court for a month. I hope
he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."

"I don't know," an