embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century
Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near 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 yet would never die. What the
worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the
canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They would
defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still live on.
It would be always alive.

He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil
the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would
have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still more
poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that
he bore him--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. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too
late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or
forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were
passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would
make the shadow of their evil real.

He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered
it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face
on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was unchanged,
and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold 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, and of what little account! His own soul
was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgement. A
look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the
picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his
servant entered.

"The persons are here, Monsieur."

He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed
to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly
about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the
writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him
round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at
eight-fifteen that evening.

"Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in
here."

In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard
himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with
a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was 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 shop. He waited for people
to come to him. But he always made an exception in favour of Dorian
Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It was a
pleasure even to see him.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled
hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in
person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a
sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited
for a religious subject, Mr. Gray."

"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.
Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame-- though I
don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a
picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I
thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."

"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to
you. Which is the work of art, sir?"

"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it,
covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched going
upstairs."

"There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker,
beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the
long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we
carry it to, Mr. Gray?"

"I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or
perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top
of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider."

He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and
began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the
picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious
protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike
of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it
so as to help them.

"Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they
reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.

"I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the
door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious


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