"When?" Henry frowns. "At Selby? I think I should remember that." Before Dorian can answer, his expression clears. "Or do you speak of that scene in the nineteenth chapter of this book? I hope you have not become confused; it is surely as much an invention of Oscar's as that final scene in your attic."

It doesn't occur to him right away that the conversation in question—or one very like it—has not happened for him yet, just as he wants to imagine that the scene of Basil's murder is some sort of dreadful metaphor, some sensational invention of Oscar's.