perfectly happy.

Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the
portrait, and he started.

"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the
table. "I shut the window?"

Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold," he murmured.

Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply
his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had
been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing
was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would
make him smile.

And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in
the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of
cruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the
room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the
portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had
been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him
to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him back. The
man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. "I
am not at home to any one, Victor," he said with a sigh. The man bowed
and retired.

Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on
a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen
was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a
rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering
if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life.

Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was
the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was
not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier
chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change?
What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own
picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be
examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state
of doubt.

He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he
looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and saw
himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered.

As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he
found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost
scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was
incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity
between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour
on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what
that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true?
Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt
afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture
in sickened horror.

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him
conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not
too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His
unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be
transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil
Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would
be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the
fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could
lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the
degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men
brought upon their souls.

Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime,
but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet
threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way
through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was
wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he
went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had
loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He
covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of
pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we
feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not
the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the
letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's voice
outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can't bear
your shutting yourself up like this."

He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still
continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and
to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him
if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He
jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the
door.

"I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But
you must not think too much about it."

"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad.

"Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly
pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of view,


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