es.

"Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the
Duchess.

"They go to America," murmured Lord Henry.

Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against
that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled all over
it, in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are
extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it."

"But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr.
Erskine, plaintively. "I don't feel up to the journey."

Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his
shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them.
The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely
reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes,
Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no
nonsense about the Americans."

"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute
reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It
is hitting below the intellect."

"I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.

"I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.

"Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the Baronet.

"Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps it
was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test Reality we
must see it on the tight-rope. When the Verities become acrobats we can
judge them."

"Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can
make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with
you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the
East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his
playing."

"I want him to play to me," cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked
down the table and caught a bright answering glance.

"But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel," continued Lady Agatha.

"I can sympathise with everything, except suffering," said Lord Henry,
shrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathise with that. It is too ugly,
too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the
modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the
beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores the better."

"Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomas,
with a gr