How different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's studio!
His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame.
Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his Soul, and Desire had come to meet it on the way.
"And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry, at last.
"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act.
I have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to acknowledge her genius.
Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands.
She is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight months—from the present time.
I shall have to pay him something, of course.
When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly.
She will make the world as mad as she has made me."
"That would be impossible, my dear boy?"
"Yes, she will.
She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age."
"Well, what night shall we go?"
"Let me see.
To-day is Tuesday.
Let us fix to-morrow.
She plays Juliet to-morrow."
"All right.
The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil."
"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six.
We must be there before the curtain rises.
You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo."
"Half-past six!
What an hour!
It will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an English novel.
It must be seven.
No gentleman dines before seven.
Shall you see Basil between this and then?
Or shall I write to him?"
"Dear Basil!
I have not laid eyes on him for a week.
It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it.
Perhaps you had better write to him.
I don't want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me.
He gives me good advice."
Lord Henry smiled.
"People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves.
It is what I call the depth of generosity."
"Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine.
Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that."
"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work.
The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common-sense.
The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists.
Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are.
A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating.
The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look.
The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible.
He lives the poetry that he cannot write.