Портрет Дориана Грея

           "Notseventeen,LadyHenry?" 

           "Well,eighteen,then.AndIsawyouwithhimtheothernightattheOpera." Shelaughednervouslyasshespoke,andwatchedhimwithhervagueforget-me-noteyes. Shewasacuriouswoman,whosedressesalwayslookedasiftheyhadbeendesignedinarageandputoninatempest. Shewasusuallyinlovewithsomebody,and,asherpassionwasneverreturned,shehadkeptallherillusions. Shetriedtolookpicturesque,butonlysucceededinbeinguntidy. HernamewasVictoria,andshehadaperfectmaniaforgoingtochurch. 

           "Thatwasat‘Lohengrin,’LadyHenry,Ithink?" 

           "Yes;itwasatdear‘Lohengrin.’IlikeWagner’smusicbetterthananybody’s. Itissoloudthatonecantalkthewholetimewithoutotherpeoplehearingwhatonesays. Thatisagreatadvantage:don’tyouthinkso,Mr.Gray?" 

           Thesamenervousstaccatolaughbrokefromherthinlips, andherfingersbegantoplaywithalongtortoise-shellpaper-knife. 

           Doriansmiled,andshookhishead: "IamafraidIdon’tthinkso,LadyHenry. Inevertalkduringmusic,atleast,duringgoodmusic. Ifonehearsbadmusic,itisone’sdutytodrownitinconversation." 

           "Ah!thatisoneofHarry’sviews,isn’tit,Mr.Gray? IalwayshearHarry’sviewsfromhisfriends. ItistheonlywayIgettoknowofthem.ButyoumustnotthinkIdon’tlikegoodmusic.Iadoreit,butIamafraidofit. Itmakesmetooromantic.Ihavesimplyworshippedpianists—twoatatime,sometimes,Harrytellsme. Idon’tknowwhatitisaboutthem.Perhapsitisthattheyareforeigners.Theyallare,ain’tthey? EventhosethatareborninEnglandbecomeforeignersafteratime,don’tthey?