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In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor

sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran

across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old

man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression

of disgust. "He thinks he's got red ants on him," laughed one of

them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and

began to whimper.

At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a

darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps,

the heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and

his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man

with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a

long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating

manner.

"You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian.

"Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the

chaps will speak to me now."

"I thought you had left England."