It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat.

As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him.

He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about.

He was tired of hearing his own name now.

Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was.