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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
.
"
Is
n'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
.
