As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with
his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's
"Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to
learn them. They are perfectly charming."
"That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian."
"Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't want a life-sized portrait of
myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a
wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint
blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your
pardon, Basil, but I didn't know you had anyone with you."
"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have
just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have
spoiled everything."
"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord
Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often
spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid,
one of her victims also."
"I am in Lady Agatha's black books at present," answered Dorian, with a
funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with
her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have
played a duet together--three duets, I believe. I don't know what she
will say to me. I am far too frightened to call."
"Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you.
And I don't think it really matters about your not being there. The
audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to
the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people."
"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian,
laughing.
Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome,
with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold
hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once.
All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate
purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No
wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.
"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray--far too
charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened
his cigarette-case.
The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes
ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry's last
remark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry,
I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of
me if I asked you to go away?"
Lord Henry smiled, and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he
asked.
"Oh, please don't, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky
moods; and I can't bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell
me why I should not go in for philanthropy."
"I don't know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a
subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly
shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don't really
mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters
to have someone to chat to."
Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay.
Dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself."
Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil,
but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans.
Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I
am nearly always at home at five o'clock. Write to me when you are
coming. I should be sorry to miss you."
"Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes I shall go too.
You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull
standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I
insist upon it."
"Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing
intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am
working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for
my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay."
"But what about my man at the Orleans?"
The painter laughed. "I don't think there will be any difficulty about
that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,
and don't move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry
says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single
exception of myself."
Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais, with the air of a young Greek
martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he
had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful
contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said
to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as
Basil says?"
"There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is
immoral--immoral from the scientific point of view."
"Why?"
"Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does
not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His
virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins,
are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else's music, an actor of a
part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is
self-development. To realise one's nature perfectly--that is what each
of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have
forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one's
self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe
the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone
out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society,
which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of
religion--these are the two things that govern us. And yet----"
"Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good
boy," said the painter, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look
had come into the lad's face that he had never seen there before.
"And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with
that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him,
and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were
to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every
feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream--I believe
that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would
forget all the maladies of mediævalism, and return to the Hellenic
ideal--to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be.
But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of
the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our
lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to
strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has
done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains
then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The
only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and
your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to
itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and
unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place
in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great
sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with
your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions
that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror,
day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek
with shame----"
"Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know what
to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't speak.
Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think."
For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips, and
eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh
influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come
really from himself. The few words that Basil's friend had said to
him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in
them--had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before,
but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.
Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But
music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another
chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were!
How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet
what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a
plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as
sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real
as words?
Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.
He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It
seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?
With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise
psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested.
He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and,
remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which
had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered
whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had
merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating
the lad was!
Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had
the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate, comes
only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.
"Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray, suddenly. "I must go
out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here."
"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think of
anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I
have caught the effect I wanted--the half-parted lips, and the bright
look in the eyes. I don't know what Harry has been saying to you, but he
has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he
has been paying you compliments. You mustn't believe a word that he
says."
"He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the
reason that I don't believe anything he has told me."
"You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his
dreamy, languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is
horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink,
something with strawberries in it."
"Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will
tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I
will join you later on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been in
better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my
masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands."
Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his
face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their
perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand
upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured.
"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the
senses but the soul."
The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had
tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There
was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are
suddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered, and some
hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.
"Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of
life--to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means
of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think
you know, just as you know less than you want to know."
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking
the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic
olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was
something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His
cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,
as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But
he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left
for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for
months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly
there had come someone across his life who seemed to have disclosed to
him life's mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not
a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.
"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought
out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be
quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not
allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming."
"What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the
seat at the end of the garden.
"It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray."
"Why?"
"Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing
worth having."
"I don't feel that, Lord Henry."
"No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and
ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion
branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will
feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it
always be so?... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don't
frown. You have. And Beauty is a form of Genius--is higher, indeed, than
Genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the
world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters
of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has
its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it.
You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile.... People say
sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least
it is not so superficial as Thought is. To me, Beauty is the wonder of
wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The
true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr.
Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they
quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really,
perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it,
and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for
you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the
memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as
it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of
you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become
sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly....
Ah! realise your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of
your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless
failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the
vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live!
Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be
always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new
Hedonism--that is what our century wants. You might be its visible
symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The
world belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that
you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really
might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must
tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if
you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will
last--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they
blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In
a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year
the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never
get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes
sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous
puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much
afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to
yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but
youth!"
Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell
from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for
a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of
the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial
things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid,
or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find
expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to
the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He
saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The
flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.
Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio, and made
staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and
smiled.
"I am waiting," he cried. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and
you can bring your drinks."
They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white
butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of
the garden a thrush began to sing.
"You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at
him.
"Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?"
"Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it.
Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to
make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only
difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice
lasts a little longer."
As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's
arm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured,
flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and
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 recognised 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
exaggerations 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 daresay."
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
shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,
are you?--you who are finer than any of them!"
"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of
the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must
lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives
something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could
change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It
will mock me some day--mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his
eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he
buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.
"This is your doing, Harry," said the painter, bitterly.
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray--that is
all."
"It is not."
"If it is not, what have I to do with it?"
"You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered.
"I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry's answer.
"Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between
you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever
done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will
not let it come across our three lives and mar them."
Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face
and tear-stained eyes looked at him, as he walked over to the deal
painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was
he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin
tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long
palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at
last. He was going to rip up the canvas.
With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to
Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the
studio. "Don't, Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would be murder!"
"I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter,
coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you
would."
"Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I
feel that."
"Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and
sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked
across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of
course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple
pleasures?"
"I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge
of the complex. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage. What
absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as
a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man
is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all:
though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had
much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn't really want
it, and I really do."
"If you let anyone have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!"
cried Dorian Gray; "and I don't allow people to call me a silly boy."
"You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it
existed."
"And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don't
really object to being reminded that you are extremely young."
"I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry."
"Ah! this morning! You have lived since then."
There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden
tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle
of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two
globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went
over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the
table, and examined what was under the covers.
"Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to
be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but it
is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am
ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent
engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have
all the surprise of candour."
"It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward.
"And, when one has them on, they are so horrid."
"Yes," answered Lord Henry, dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth
century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only
real colour-element left in modern life."
"You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry."
"Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one
in the picture?"
"Before either."
"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the
lad.
"Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won't you?"
"I can't really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do."
"Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray."
"I should like that awfully."
The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I
shall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly.
"Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling
across to him. "Am I really like that?"
"Yes; you are just like that."
"How wonderful, Basil!"
"At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,"
sighed Hallward. "That is something."
"What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why,
even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to
do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old
men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say."
"Don't go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and
dine with me."
"I can't, Basil."
"Why?"
"Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him."
"He won't like you the better for keeping your promises. He always
breaks his own. I beg you not to go."
Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.
"I entreat you."
The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them
from the tea-table with an amused smile.
"I must go, Basil," he answered.
"Very well," said Hallward; and he went over and laid down his cup on
the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better
lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon.
Come to-morrow."
"Certainly."
"You won't forget?"
"No, of course not," cried Dorian.
"And... Harry!"
"Yes, Basil?"
"Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning."
"I have forgotten it."
"I trust you."
"I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr.
Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.
Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon."
As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a
sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.