Chapter 4
Oernoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reing in a luxurious arm-chair, itle library of Lord Henrys house in Mayfair. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainsg of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed <big>藏书网</big>Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les t 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 a 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 e 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 tig of the Louis Quatorze oyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away.
At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. &quot;How late you are, Harry!&quot; he murmured.
&quot;I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,&quot; answered a shrill voice.
He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. &quot;I beg your pardon. I thought--&quot;
&quot;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.&quot;
&quot;Not seventeen, Lady Henry?&quot;
&quot;Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the ht at the opera.&quot; She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watch