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"My dear fellow," said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in

surprise, "I asked you because I thought you might be able to

give me an answer. That is all. I was going through the park last

Sunday, and close by the Marble Arch there stood a little crowd

of shabby-looking people listening to some vulgar

street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the man yelling out that

question to his audience. It struck me as being rather dramatic.

London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A wet

Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly

white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a

wonderful phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips-it

was really very good in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of

telling the prophet that art had a soul, but that man had not. I

am afraid, however, he would not have understood me."