[Henry notes Dorian's selections with interest and approval, whilst also committing them to memory for future reference.]

It is a relief to know that one can still conduct oneself as a gentleman ought, even in a city on the back of a turtle.

[He turns to look at Dorian, and somehow in that moment—perhaps it's a trick of the light, or something about the fold of his shirt—Henry has an intuition that's almost painful: that Dorian has become something for which he, Henry, has no true frame of reference, and for which he never will. The insight is brief and fleeting; he can scarcely grasp it before it's gone, leaving only a peculiar unease. To Dorian it will seem that his expression darkens briefly, shade cast by a curtain blown in the wind. And then it's replaced with the old fond look, and when Henry speaks, it's with an unusual honesty.]

You know, my dear boy, I really am very glad to have found you here. While I don't doubt that I would have found my footing eventually on my own, struggle does not really ennoble the spirit, and I am glad to have you to help me circumvent the worst of it.