Chapter 8
It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sevres a, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows.
"Monsieur has well slept this m," he said, smiling.
"What oclock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray drowsily.
"One hour and a quarter, Monsieur."
How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that m. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly. They taihe usual colle of cards, invitations to diickets for private views, programmes of charity certs, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every m during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver Louis-Quioilet-set that he had not yet had the ce to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only ies; and there were several very courteously worded unications from Jermyn Street money-lenders to advany sum of mo a moments notid at the most reasoes of i.
After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have fotten all that he had gh. A dim sense of having taken part in some straragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the uy of a dream about it.
As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a ligh