The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,
and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He
could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his
indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was
so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.

"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won't speak to
you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your
name won't be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take
place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"

Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at
the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and
vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don't know my name," he answered.

"But surely she did?"

"Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned to
any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who
I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. It
was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should
like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and
some broken pathetic words."

"I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you
must come and sit to me yourself again. I can't get on without you."

"I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed,
starting back.

The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do
you mean to say you don't like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have
you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best
thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply
disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room
looked different as I came in."

"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don't imagine I let
him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes--
that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait."

"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for
it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.

A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips, and he rushed between the
painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must
not look at it. I don't wish you to."

"Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn't I look at
it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing.

"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never
speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don't offer
any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you
touch this screen, everything is over between us."

Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute
amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually
pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes
were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.

"Dorian!"

"Don't speak!"

"But what is the matter? Of course I won't look at it if you don't want
me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over
towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I
shouldn't see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in
Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of
varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?"

"To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a
strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be
shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That
was impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be done at once.

"Yes; I don't suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going to
collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de
Seze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only
be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that time.
In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it always
behind a screen, you can't care much about it."

Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of
perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible
danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he
cried. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being
consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference
is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can't have forgotten that
you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you
to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the same thing." He
stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He remembered
that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest,
"If you want to have a strange quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you
why he won't exhibit your picture. He told me why he wouldn't, and it
was a revelation to me." Yes, perhaps Basil, too, had his secret. He
would ask him and try.



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