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"My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping

some pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of

Venetian glass and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the opera.

You should have come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's

sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She is perfectly

charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don't talk about horrid

subjects. If one doesn't talk about a thing, it has never

happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives

reality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman's

only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he

is not on the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell

me about yourself and what you are painting."