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A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked

at Dorian.

"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather

out of sorts at dinner."

"I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."

"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite

devoted to you. She tells me she is going down to Selby."

"She has promised to come on the twentieth."

"Is Monmouth to be there, too?"

"Oh, yes, Harry."

"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is

very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable

charm of weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of

the image precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not

feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been

through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She

has had experiences."

"How long has she been married?" asked Dorian.