[He flashes her a smile.] Oh, are you offering to teach me?

[Dorian grieves his clothing, but he sacrifices his shirt to the necessity of self-defence, and follows suit in using the oil for his torches.]

But Lord, you sound like Oscar after his prison sentence. The virtue of pain, the limits of the the sunlit side of life's garden, the lessons sorrow teaches us. I don't begrudge others their theories of necessary suffering, but I'd rather pass. I can get by just fine on pleasure alone.

[This is a philosophy which Dorian is doing a remarkable job not putting into practice today, and yet he will continue to espouse it, even as he prepares another torch for a painful and voluntary endeavour.]