For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile.

He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice.

Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever.

He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban.

Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him.