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of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I
always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and consequently they
never bother me. What I want is information; not useful
information, of course; useless information.” “Well, I can tell you
anything that is in an English Blue-book, Harry, although those
fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the
Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in
now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are
pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he
knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he
knows is bad for him.” “Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue-
books, Uncle George,” said Lord Henry, languidly.

“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, knitting his
bushy white eyebrows.

“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I
know who, he is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother
was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me
about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You
have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have
known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I
have only just met him.” “Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the old
gentleman. “Kelso’s grandson!... Of course.... I knew his mother
intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an
extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the
men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow, a
mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of
that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened
yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months
after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said
Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult
his son-in-law in public, paid him, sir, to do it, paid him, and that
the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing
was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for
some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I
was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad
business. The girl died too, died within a year. So she left a son,
did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of a boy is he? If he is like
his mother he must be a good-looking chap.” “He is very good-
looking,” assented Lord Henry.

“I hope he will fall into proper hands,” continued the old man. “He
should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right
thing by him. His mother had money too. All the Selby property
came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated
Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once
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