He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.
"Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the chaud-froid was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night?
You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous.

He is quite right.

I certainly should." "Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." "How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady.
"I really cannot understand it." "It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry.

"She is the one link between us and your short frocks." "She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry.

But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how decolletee she was then." "She is still decolletee," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an edition de luxe of a bad French novel.