The Picture of Dorian Gray

ve and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor'

to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the m

oned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled

l of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go

t straight, Leaf. I

you go into it. Why, it hasn't been opened for

l memories of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I

with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I'll have it off the bunch in

tulantly. "Thank you,

etail of the household. He sighed and told her to manage thin

ar Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself-something that would breed horrors and ye

-for it was really love-had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself.

old hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips-they all were there. It was simply the expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil's reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!-how shallow,

s are here,

something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to Lor

said, handing it to him,

as a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his

lf the honour of coming round in person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a s

ok at the frame-though I don't go in much at present for religious art-but to-day I only want a picture carried t

delighted to be of any service to y

Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is?

ith the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chain

r perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the t

e had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the t

d the little man when they reached the top

the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the c

eep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little changed. There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a ga

should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth-that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins tha

or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. Ther

wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept yo

wered the frame-maker, who was still gaspin

I don't want to have it hung up. Ju

ok at the wor

y to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the

bbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a

or and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever

ges soiled. A copy of the third edition of The St. James's Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to miss the picture-had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set back, and a blank

ning paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James's lan

actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of

bly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the report. And it was certainly

t, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane'

t in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite ra

at wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritua

e could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going in

e club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone

s entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fa

like it," replied his ho

ry. I said it fascinated me.

" murmured Lord Henry. And the