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Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room.

Yes: it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had

never seen before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden,

one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs

who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their

friends; Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a

hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised,

but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no

one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne, a

pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair;

Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess's daughter, a dowdy dull girl,

with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen,

are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,

white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was

under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an

entire lack of ideas.