is usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his ie and scarf-pin and ging his rings more than once. He spent a long time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the servants at Selby, and going through his corresponde some of the letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyan his face. "That awful thing, a womans memory!" as Lord Henry had once said.
After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly with a napkin, motioo his servant to wait, and going over to the table, sat down and wrote two letters. O in his pocket, the other he hao the valet.
"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of tow his address."
As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and begag upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeo Basil Hallward. He frowned, aing up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. He was determihat he would not think about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so.
When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. It was Gautiers Emaux et Camees, Charpentiers Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etg. The binding was of citron-greeher, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Sion. As he turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Laaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplial lavé:e," with its downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune." He gla his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spi