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A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby

Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her

husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It

was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp

that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered

silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her

white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red

lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her.

Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking

at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough,

pretending to listen to the duke's description of the last

Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young

men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of

the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there

were more expected to arrive on the next day.