resumed his pose.

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, Harry."

"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


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