Lord Henry has been bored, and as a result -- as he nearly always does when he is bored, or restless, or melancholy, or anything else -- he has once again taken a worn yellow book from its place on the shelf and begun to read ( Read more... )

Lord Henry sits in the library, reading a certain yellow book -- he's no longer feeling ill, as he did upon waking a few days ago (likely a result of how unaccustomed his body is to the sort of abuse his crackified self tends to inflict on it) but finds there is a curious lapse in his memory, and the familiarity eases his mind.

*and here's a Lord Henry, leaning against the porch railing with a cigarette in hand, frowning slightly (he's thinking, unfortunately not of anything particularly charming, and would be glad to be interrupted)*