"That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward.
"Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry.
"This is," interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women give to men the very gold of their lives."
"Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very small change.
That is the worry.
Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces, and always prevent us from carrying them out."
"Harry, you are dreadful!
I don't know why I like you so much."
"You will always like me, Dorian," he replied.
"Will you have some coffee, you fellows?—Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and some cigarettes.
No: don't mind the cigarettes; I have some.
Basil, I can't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette.
A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied.
What more can one want?
Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me.
I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit."
"What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre.
When Sibyl comes on the stage you will have a new ideal of life.
She will represent something to you that you have never known."
"I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his eyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing.
Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me.
I love acting. It is so much more real than life.
Let us go.
Dorian, you will come with me.
I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham.
You must follow us in a hansom."
They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing.
The painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him.
He could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many other things that might have happened.
After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs.
He drove off by himself, as had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in front of him.
A strange sense of loss came over him.
He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past.
Life had come between them....
His eyes darkened, and the crowded, flaring streets became blurred to his eyes.
When the cab drew up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.
CHAPTER VII
For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile.
He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the top of his voice.
Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban.
Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him.
At least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand, and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet.
Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit.
The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire.
The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side.
They talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them.
Some women were laughing in the pit.
Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant.
The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.
"What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry.