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There are moments when the odour of lilas blanc passes suddenly

across me, and I have to live the strangest month of my life over

again. I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world

has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you.

It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is

searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad

that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or

painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life

has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are

your sonnets."

Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his

hair. "Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not

going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these

extravagant things to me. You don't know everything about me. I

think that if you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh.

Don't laugh."