they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano,
with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of
Schumann's "Forest Scenes." "You must lend me
these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them. They
are perfectly charming."
"That entirely depends on
how you sit to-day, Dorian."
"Oh, I am tired of sitting,
and I don't want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered
the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant
manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured
his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your
pardon, Basil, but I didn't know you had any one with you."
"This is Lord Henry Wotton,
Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling
him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled
"You have not spoiled my
pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping
forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken
to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid,
one of her victims also."
"I am in Lady Agatha's black
books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of
penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with
her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to
have played a duet together three duets, I believe.
I don't know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened
"Oh, I will make your peace
with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don't think
it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably
thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano,
she makes quite enough noise for two people."
"That is very horrid to
her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing.
Lord Henry looked at him. Yes,
he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved
scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There
was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All
the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate
purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the
world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.
"You are too charming to
go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too charming."
And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his
The painter had been busy mixing
his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried,
and when he heard Lord Henry's last remark, he glanced at him,
hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to
finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of
me if I asked you to go away?"
Lord Henry smiled and looked
at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked.
"Oh, please don't, Lord
Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can't
bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I
should not go in for philanthropy."
"I don't know that I shall
tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one
would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall
not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don't really
mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your
sitters to have some one to chat to."
Hallward bit his lip. "If
Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian's whims are
laws to everybody, except himself."
Lord Henry took up his hat and
gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I
must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye,
Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I
am nearly always at home at five o'clock. Write to me when you
are coming. I should be sorry to miss you."
"Basil," cried Dorian
Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never
open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull
standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to
stay. I insist upon it."
"Stay, Harry, to oblige
Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently
at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am
working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious
for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay."
"But what about my man at
The painter laughed. "I
don't think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down
again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don't
move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry
says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with
the single exception of myself."
Dorian Gray stepped up on the
dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little
moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather
taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful
contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments
he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord
Henry? As bad as Basil says?"
"There is no such thing
as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral
immoral from the scientific point of view."
"Because to influence a
person is to give him one's own soul. He does not think his natural
thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are
not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins,
are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else's music, an
actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of
life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly
that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves,
nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the
duty that one owes to one's self. Of course, they are charitable.
They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls
starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps
we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis
of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion
these are the two things that govern us. And yet
"Just turn your head a little
more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter,
deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into
the lad's face that he had never seen there before.
"And yet," continued
Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful
wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and
that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one
man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give
form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to
every dream I believe that the world would gain
such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies
of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal
to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be.
But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation
of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that
mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse
that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us.
The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is
a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection
of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get
rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul
grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself,
with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and
unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world
take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only,
that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray,
you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood,
you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that
have fined you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose
mere memory might stain your cheek with shame
"Stop!" faltered Dorian
Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know what to say.
There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't speak.
Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think."
For nearly ten minutes he stood
there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright.
He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at
work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from
himself. The few words that Basil's friend had said to him
words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in
them had touched some secret chord that had never
been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing
to curious pulses.
Music had stirred him like that.
Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate.
It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created
in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear,
and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet
what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able
to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music
of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words!
Was there anything so real as words?
Yes; there had been things in
his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now.
Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him
that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?
With his subtle smile, Lord Henry
watched him. He knew the precise psychological moment when to
say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the
sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering
a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had
revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered
whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.
He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark?
How fascinating the lad was!
Hallward painted away with that
marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and
perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only from strength.
He was unconscious of the silence.
"Basil, I am tired of standing,"
cried Dorian Gray suddenly. "I must go out and sit in the
garden. The air is stifling here."
"My dear fellow, I am so
sorry. When I am painting, I can't think of anything else. But
you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught
the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and
the bright look in the eyes. I don't know what Harry has been
saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful
expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You
mustn't believe a word that he says."
"He has certainly not been
paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don't
believe anything he has told me."
"You know you believe it
all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous
eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly
hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink,
something with strawberries in it."
"Certainly, Harry. Just
touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you
want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you
later on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better
form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece.
It is my masterpiece as it stands."
Lord Henry went out to the garden
and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms,
feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine.
He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You
are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing
can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the
senses but the soul."
The lad started and drew back.
He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls
and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear
in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened.
His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve
shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.
"Yes," continued Lord
Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life
to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means
of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than
you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."
Dorian Gray frowned and turned
his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young
man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face
and worn expression interested him. There was something in his
low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool,
white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,
as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their
own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid.
Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself?
He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between
them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one
across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery.
And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy
or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.
"Let us go and sit in the
shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the
drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be
quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really
must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming."
"What can it matter?"
cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the
end of the garden.
"It should matter everything
to you, Mr. Gray."
"Because you have the most
marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having."
"I don't feel that, Lord
"No, you don't feel it now.
Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought
has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded
your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will
feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world.
Will it always be so?... You have a wonderfully beautiful face,
Mr. Gray. Don't frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius
is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It
is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time,
or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call
the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of
sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile?
Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile.... People say sometimes
that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least
it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the
wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge
by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible,
not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good
to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have
only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully.
When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you
will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you,
or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the
memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every
month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time
is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses.
You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You
will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have
it. Don't squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious,
trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life
to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly
aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful
life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always
searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new
Hedonism that is what our century wants. You
might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing
you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The
moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what
you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much
in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something
about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were
wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will
last such a little time. The common hill-flowers
wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow
next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars
on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves
will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth.
The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish.
Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets,
haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much
afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage
to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the
world but youth!"
Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed
and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the
gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then
it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the
tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial
things that we try to develop when things of high import make
us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which
we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies
us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After
a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained
trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver,
and then swayed gently to and fro.
Suddenly the painter appeared
at the door of the studio and made staccato signs for them to
come in. They turned to each other and smiled.
"I am waiting," he
cried. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you
can bring your drinks."
They rose up and sauntered down
the walk together. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered
past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a
thrush began to sing.
"You are glad you have met
me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at him.
"Yes, I am glad now. I wonder
shall I always be glad?"
"Always! That is a dreadful
word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of
using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last
for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference
between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice
lasts a little longer."
As they entered the studio, Dorian
Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's arm. "In that case,
let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing
at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed
Lord Henry flung himself into
a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. The sweep and dash
of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the
stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to
look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that
streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden.
The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.
After about a quarter of an hour
Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray,
and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one
of his huge brushes and frowning. "It is quite finished,"
he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long
vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.
Lord Henry came over and examined
the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a
wonderful likeness as well.
"My dear fellow, I congratulate
you most warmly," he said. "It is the finest portrait
of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself."
The lad started, as if awakened
from some dream.
"Is it really finished?"
he murmured, stepping down from the platform.
"Quite finished," said
the painter. "And you have sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully
obliged to you."
"That is entirely due to
me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray?"
Dorian made no answer, but passed
listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When
he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with
pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized
himself for the first time. He stood there motionless and in
wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but
not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty
came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil
Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming
exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed
at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature.
Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on
youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred
him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of
his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed
across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be
wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of
his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from
his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was
to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful,
hideous, and uncouth.
As he thought of it, a sharp
pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate
fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst,
and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of
ice had been laid upon his heart.
"Don't you like it?"
cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad's silence,
not understanding what it meant.
"Of course he likes it,"
said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it? It is one of the
greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like
to ask for it. I must have it."
"It is not my property,
"Whose property is it?"
"Dorian's, of course,"
answered the painter.
"He is a very lucky fellow."
"How sad it is!" murmured
Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait.
"How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful.
But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older
than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other
way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture
that was to grow old! For that for that
I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world
I would not give! I would give my soul for that!"
"You would hardly care for
such an arrangement, Basil," cried Lord Henry, laughing.
"It would be rather hard lines on your work."
"I should object very strongly,
Harry," said Hallward.
Dorian Gray turned and looked
at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better
than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure.
Hardly as much, I dare say."
The painter stared in amazement.
It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened?
He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.
"Yes," he continued,
"I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver
Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till
I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one
loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything.
Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly
right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that
I am growing old, I shall kill myself."
Hallward turned pale and caught
his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don't talk
like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall
never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,
are you? you who are finer than any of them!"
"I am jealous of everything
whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have
painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment
that passes takes something from me and gives something to it.
Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change,
and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It
will mock me some day mock me horribly!"
The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and,
flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions,
as though he was praying.
"This is your doing, Harry,"
said the painter bitterly.
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.
"It is the real Dorian Gray that is all."
"It is not."
"If it is not, what have
I to do with it?"
"You should have gone away
when I asked you," he muttered.
"I stayed when you asked
me," was Lord Henry's answer.
"Harry, I can't quarrel
with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have
made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I
will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not
let it come across our three lives and mar them."
Dorian Gray lifted his golden
head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes,
looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that
was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing
there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin
tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for
the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He
had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.
With a stifled sob the lad leaped
from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife
out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. "Don't,
Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would be murder!"
"I am glad you appreciate
my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he
had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would."
"Appreciate it? I am in
love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that."
"Well, as soon as you are
dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then
you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across
the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea,
of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to
such simple pleasures?"
"I adore simple pleasures,"
said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of the complex.
But I don't like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows
you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational
animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man
is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not,
after all though I wish you chaps would not squabble
over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil.
This silly boy doesn't really want it, and I really do."
"If you let any one have
it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" cried Dorian
Gray; "and I don't allow people to call me a silly boy."
"You know the picture is
yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed."
"And you know you have been
a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don't really object to
being reminded that you are extremely young."
"I should have objected
very strongly this morning, Lord Henry."
"Ah! this morning! You have
lived since then."
There came a knock at the door,
and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down
upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers
and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china
dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured
out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and
examined what was under the covers.
"Let us go to the theatre
to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something
on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but it is
only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that
I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of
a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice
excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour."
"It is such a bore putting
on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when
one has them on, they are so horrid."
"Yes," answered Lord
Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is
detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real
colour-element left in modern life."
"You really must not say
things like that before Dorian, Harry."
"Before which Dorian? The
one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?"
"I should like to come to
the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad.
"Then you shall come; and
you will come, too, Basil, won't you?"
"I can't, really. I would
sooner not. I have a lot of work to do."
"Well, then, you and I will
go alone, Mr. Gray."
"I should like that awfully."
The painter bit his lip and walked
over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shall stay with the
real Dorian," he said, sadly.
"Is it the real Dorian?"
cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him.
"Am I really like that?"
"Yes; you are just like
"How wonderful, Basil!"
"At least you are like it
in appearance. But it will never alter," sighed Hallward.
"That is something."
"What a fuss people make
about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why, even in
love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to
do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are
not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one
"Don't go to the theatre
to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and dine with
"I can't, Basil."
"Because I have promised
Lord Henry Wotton to go with him."
"He won't like you the better
for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you
not to go."
Dorian Gray laughed and shook
"I entreat you."
The lad hesitated, and looked
over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table
with an amused smile.
"I must go, Basil,"
"Very well," said Hallward,
and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray. "It
is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose
no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon.
"You won't forget?"
"No, of course not,"
"Remember what I asked you,
when we were in the garden this morning."
"I have forgotten it."
"I trust you."
"I wish I could trust myself,"
said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is
outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil.
It has been a most interesting afternoon."
As the door closed behind them,
the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain
came into his face.
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