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He
felt
that
if
he
brooded
on
what
he
had
gone
through
he
would
sicken
or
grow
mad
.
There
were
sins
whose
fascination
was
more
in
the
memory
than
in
the
doing
of
them
;
strange
triumphs
that
gratified
the
pride
more
than
the
passions
,
and
gave
to
the
intellect
a
quickened
sense
of
joy
,
greater
than
any
joy
they
brought
,
or
could
ever
bring
,
to
the
senses
.
But
this
was
not
one
of
them
.
It
was
a
thing
to
be
driven
out
of
the
mind
,
to
be
drugged
with
poppies
,
to
be
strangled
lest
it
might
strangle
one
itself
.
When
the
half-hour
struck
,
he
passed
his
hand
across
his
forehead
,
and
then
got
up
hastily
,
and
dressed
himself
with
even
more
than
his
usual
care
,
giving
a
good
deal
of
attention
to
the
choice
of
his
necktie
and
scarf-pin
,
and
changing
his
rings
more
than
once
.
He
spent
a
long
time
also
over
breakfast
,
tasting
the
various
dishes
,
talking
to
his
valet
about
some
new
liveries
that
he
was
thinking
of
getting
made
for
the
servants
at
Selby
,
and
going
through
his
correspondence
.
At
some
of
the
letters
he
smiled
.
Three
of
them
bored
him
.
One
he
read
several
times
over
,
and
then
tore
up
with
a
slight
look
of
annoyance
in
his
face
.
"
That
awful
thing
,
a
woman
's
memory
!
"
as
Lord
Henry
had
once
said
.
After
he
had
drunk
his
cup
of
black
coffee
,
he
wiped
his
lips
slowly
with
a
napkin
,
motioned
to
his
servant
to
wait
,
and
going
over
to
the
table
sat
down
and
wrote
two
letters
.
One
he
put
in
his
pocket
,
the
other
he
handed
to
the
valet
.
"
Take
this
round
to
152
,
Hertford
Street
,
Francis
,
and
if
Mr.
Campbell
is
out
of
town
,
get
his
address
.
"
As
soon
as
he
was
alone
,
he
lit
a
cigarette
,
and
began
sketching
upon
a
piece
of
paper
,
drawing
first
flowers
,
and
bits
of
architecture
,
and
then
human
faces
.
Suddenly
he
remarked
that
every
face
that
he
drew
seemed
to
have
a
fantastic
likeness
to
Basil
Hallward
.
He
frowned
,
and
,
getting
up
,
went
over
to
the
bookcase
and
took
out
a
volume
at
hazard
.
He
was
determined
that
he
would
not
think
about
what
had
happened
until
it
became
absolutely
necessary
that
he
should
do
so
.
When
he
had
stretched
himself
on
the
sofa
,
he
looked
at
the
title-page
of
the
book
.
It
was
Gautier
's
"
Émaux
et
Camées
,
"
Charpentier
's
Japanese-paper
edition
,
with
the
Jacquemart
etching
.
The
binding
was
of
citron-green
leather
,
with
a
design
of
gilt
trellis-work
and
dotted
pomegranates
.
It
had
been
given
to
him
by
Adrian
Singleton
.
As
he
turned
over
the
pages
his
eye
fell
on
the
poem
about
the
hand
of
Lacenaire
,
the
cold
yellow
hand
"
du
supplice
encore
mal
lavée
,
"
with
its
downy
red
hairs
and
its
"
doigts
de
faune
.
"
He
glanced
at
his
own
white
taper
fingers
,
shuddering
slightly
in
spite
of
himself
,
and
passed
on
,
till
he
came
to
those
lovely
stanzas
upon
Venice
:
--
"
Sur
une
gamme
chromatique
,
Le
sein
de
perles
ruisselant
,
