secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.

He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed,
since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then
as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,
well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord
Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness
to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and
desired to keep 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 garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds
on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every moment
of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He recalled
the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him
that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. How little he
had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him!

But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as
this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple
pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and
unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not
see it. Why 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 that seemed to be already stirring in spirit
and in flesh-- those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent
them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look
would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might
show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.

No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon
the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but
the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become
hollow 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. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands,
the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so
stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was
no help for it.

"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I
am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."

"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who
was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"

"Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just
lean it against the wall. Thanks."

"Might one look at the work of art, sir?"

Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard," he said,
keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him
to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed
the secret of his life. "I shan't trouble you any more now. I am much
obliged for your kindness in coming round."

Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,
sir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who
glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough uncomely
face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.

When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door
and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look
upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.

On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock
and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark
perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley,
his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the
preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside
it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the
edges 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 space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he might find
him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a
horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men
who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a
letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an
address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of
crumpled lace.

He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's
note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening 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 languidly, and looked through
it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew
attention to the following paragraph:

INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell


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