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"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."