Chapter 4 — CHAPTER IV.

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious
arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It
was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of
olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork,
and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a
tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of
Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered
with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue
china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the
small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a
summer day in London.

Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his principle
being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather
sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately
illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had found in one of the
book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed
him. Once or twice he thought of going away.

At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. “How late you are,
Harry!” he murmured.

“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” answered a shrill voice.

He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I
thought—”

“You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me
introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband
has got seventeen of them.”