The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for."
"Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked.
"His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian.
"I recognise him in a flash," exclaimed the Duchess.
"I won't hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape!
I refuse the title."
"Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips.
"You wish me to defend my throne, then?"
"Yes."
"I give the truths of to-morrow."
"I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered.
"You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.
"Of your shield, Harry: not of your spear."
"I never tilt against Beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand.
"That is your error, Harry, believe me.
You value beauty far too much."
"How can you say that?
I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good.
But on the other hand no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly."
"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the Duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?"
"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys.
You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them.
Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is."
"You don't like your country, then?" she asked.
"I live in it."
"That you may censure it the better."
"Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired.
"What do they say of us?"
"That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop."
"Is that yours, Harry?"
"I give it to you."
"I could not use it.
It is too true."
"You need not be afraid.
Our countrymen never recognise a description."
"They are practical."
"They are more cunning than practical.
When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy."
"Still, we have done great things."
"Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys."
"We have carried their burden."
"Only as far as the Stock Exchange."
She shook her head.
"I believe in the race," she cried.
"It represents the survival of the pushing."
"It has development."
"Decay fascinates me more."
"What of Art?" she asked.
"It is a malady."
"Love?"