Hi, it's Phoebe. This February, we're celebrating 10 years of our show with a live tour, and we're very excited to be coming to London.

We'll be telling brand new stories live on stage, and you can even get meet-and-greet tickets to come and say hi before the show.

Tickets are on sale now at ThisIsCriminal.com slash live. We can't wait to see you there.

Chapter 17

A week later, Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of 60, was amongst his guest.

It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate China, and hammered silver of the service at which the Duchess was presiding.

Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her.

Lord Henry was lying back in a silk draped wicker chair, looking at them.

On a peach-colored dive-an, sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the Duke's description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection.

Three young men and elaborate smoking suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women.

The House Party consisted of 12 people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day.

What are you two talking about, said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down?

I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for recrystaining everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea.

But I don't want to be recrystined, Harry, rejoin the Duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes.

I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his.

My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect.

I was thinking chiefly flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid for my buttonhole.

It was a marvelous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins.

In a thoughtless moment, I asked one of the gardeners what it was called.

He told me it was a fine specimen of Robinsinia, or something dreadful of that kind.

It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.

Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words.

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