Page 10 of 490

"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said

Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the

garden. "I believe that you are really a very good husband, but

that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an

extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never

do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose."

"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I

know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out

into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long

bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The

sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white

daisies were tremulous.

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I

must be going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on

your answering a question I put to you some time ago."

"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the

ground.

"You know quite well."

"I do not, Harry."