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in his hands. "You don't understand what friendship is, Harry," he murmured, "or what enmity is for that matter. You like every one, that is to saywhich is the same as saying that you are indifferent to every one."
"How horribly unjust of you," cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk. "Yes: horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference between people. I choose my friends for their good looks: my ene acquaintances for their characters: and my enemies for their brains. A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a goof. They are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of me? I think it is rather vain."
"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category, I must be merely an acquaintance."
"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.
"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?
