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Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and

began to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large,

grey-plumaged bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing

itself upon a bamboo perch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it

dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids over black, glasslike

eyes and began to sway backwards and forwards.

"Yes," he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief

out of his pocket; "his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to

me to have lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he

ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What

was it separated you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never

forgave you. It's a habit bores have. By the way, what has become

of that wonderful portrait he did of you? I don't think I have

ever seen it since he finished it. Oh! I remember your telling me

years ago that you had sent it down to Selby, and that it had got

mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got it back? What a pity!

it was really a masterpiece. I remember I wanted to buy it. I

wish I had now. It belonged to Basil's best period. Since then,

his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good

intentions that always entitles a man to be called a

representative British artist. Did you advertise for it? You

should."