Philosophy herself became young, and
catching the mad music of Pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her
wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the
hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled
before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge
press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round
her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over
the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary
improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,
and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose
temperament he wished to fascinate, seemed to give his wit keenness, and
to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic,
irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they
followed his pipe laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but
sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips, and
wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.

At last, liveried in the costume of the age, Reality entered the room in
the shape of a servant to tell the Duchess that her carriage was
waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. "How annoying!" she cried.
"I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to
some absurd meeting at Willis's Rooms, where he is going to be in the
chair. If I am late, he is sure to be furious, and I couldn't have a
scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would ruin it.
No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are quite
delightful, and dreadfully demoralising. I am sure I don't know what to
say about your views. You must come and dine with us some night.
Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?"

"For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess," said Lord Henry, with a
bow.

"Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you," she cried; "so mind you
come;" and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the
other ladies.

When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking
a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.

"You talk books away," he said; "why don't you write one?"

"I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I
should like to write a novel certainly; a novel that would be as lovely
as a Persian carpet, and as unreal. But there is no literary public in
England for anything except news