There is a faint ripple in the millpond composure, just for an eyeblink. Henry would like to find some way to cajole and flatter Dorian out of this, but he is certain it will not work. And while he certainly never stated so baldly in Oscar's presence that he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait ... would seek to dominate him ... would make that wonderful spirit his own—he knew, in his own self-vivisected heart, that it was true. Like an oracle, Oscar had divined what was truth in Lord Henry's words, and what was simply said for shock; it was extraordinary, really. Only the knife-sharp sense of betrayal kept him from admiring it unreservedly.

But can he admit this to Dorian Gray?

Like hell.

"That you were an individual of extraordinary personal beauty and possessed of a marvellous personality? That you interested me far more than any other individual I had met to date? That it was a delight to watch your passion for poor Miss Vane? All of that was quite true."