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"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know

nothing," said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of

infinite contempt in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a

room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his

life, not because he knows anything about mine. With such blood

as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? You ask me

about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his

vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent's silly son takes

his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If Adrian

Singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am I his

keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes

air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and

whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in

order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on

intimate terms with the people they slander.