Dorian's lips quirked upward in a little smile as he took a leisurely drag from his cigarette. "Harry," he started, exhaling a winding spiral of smoke, "I do so adore these cigarettes of yours!"

"Ah," Lord Henry chuckled, stretching and flicking ash haphazardly from his own, "A cigarette is the perfect type of perfect pleasure! It is exquisite, and it leaves one," here he paused to expertly exhale a twist of smoke with a sigh, "delightfully unsatisfied."

Dorian watched the smoke curve and twist in the air, transfixed. "I…" He touched a finger to his lips. "I do so. . . adore these opinions of yours, you know. You are always right, Harry."

"I say!" Lord Henry cried, looking utterly delighted, "Dorian, you flatter me!"

The youth smiled, ashing his cigarette. "Oh, but I was only taught by the very best, Harry."

"Dorian, Dorian! You're bound to give me a big head with such nonsense."

Dorian shrugged. "You almost sound like Basil with that silliness, you know."

Lord Henry blinked.

"Dorian," he laughed, "dear boy! Dear, dear boy! Why, I would just about die if I were to be as stuffy and mundane as poor Basil."

Dorian pursed his lips and frowned. "He is not stuffy."

"Dorian," Henry scolded, waving his cigarette about idly and scattering hot ashes on the floor, "don't do that. It truly is so unflattering to one as young and perfect as yourself. Do not waste away your beauty in a scowl. You know I do not think poorly of Basil, you silly boy; I simply find his severe amount of normalcy rather…mmm, dreadful, shall we say?" He took a long drag from his cigarette, adding, "And he can be extremely stuffy, but you should care nothing of that. Stop your scowling; I know you shall mar your sweet face with it, and then I will be terribly distraught."

Dorian smiled weakly and turned away, tracing a finger over his lips and staring at the crushed cigarette in the ash tray. "I am ever so sorry, Harry," he said quietly, casting his gaze to the floor.

"Dear one, is something the matter?"

He looked up after a moment, at the antique screen across the room that shielded the picture of Dorian Gray from the world.

You know, I am practically a murderer, Harry.

It's my fault she's dead.

. . .I have never yearned before you happened upon me.

My soul is ugly because of you.

I adore you.

"No," Dorian whispered.

I feel like. . . an indecency.