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In
the
huge
gilt
Venetian
lantern
,
spoil
of
some
Doge
's
barge
,
that
hung
from
the
ceiling
of
the
great
oak-panelled
hall
of
entrance
,
lights
were
still
burning
from
three
flickering
jets
:
thin
blue
petals
of
flame
they
seemed
,
rimmed
with
white
fire
.
He
turned
them
out
,
and
,
having
thrown
his
hat
and
cape
on
the
table
,
passed
through
the
library
towards
the
door
of
his
bedroom
,
a
large
octagonal
chamber
on
the
ground
floor
that
,
in
his
new-born
feeling
for
luxury
,
he
had
just
had
decorated
for
himself
,
and
hung
with
some
curious
Renaissance
tapestries
that
had
been
discovered
stored
in
a
disused
attic
at
Selby
Royal
.
As
he
was
turning
the
handle
of
the
door
,
his
eye
fell
upon
the
portrait
Basil
Hallward
had
painted
of
him
.
He
started
back
as
if
in
surprise
.
Then
he
went
on
into
his
own
room
,
looking
somewhat
puzzled
.
After
he
had
taken
the
buttonhole
out
of
his
coat
,
he
seemed
to
hesitate
.
Finally
he
came
back
,
went
over
to
the
picture
,
and
examined
it
.
In
the
dim
arrested
light
that
struggled
through
the
cream-coloured
silk
blinds
,
the
face
appeared
to
him
to
be
a
little
changed
.
The
expression
looked
different
.
One
would
have
said
that
there
was
a
touch
of
cruelty
in
the
mouth
.
It
was
certainly
strange
.
He
turned
round
,
and
,
walking
to
the
window
,
drew
up
the
blind
.
The
bright
dawn
flooded
the
room
,
and
swept
the
fantastic
shadows
into
dusky
corners
,
where
they
lay
shuddering
.
But
the
strange
expression
that
he
had
noticed
in
the
face
of
the
portrait
seemed
to
linger
there
,
to
be
more
intensified
even
.
The
quivering
,
ardent
sunlight
showed
him
the
lines
of
cruelty
round
the
mouth
as
clearly
as
if
he
had
been
looking
into
a
mirror
after
he
had
done
some
dreadful
thing
.
He
winced
,
and
,
taking
up
from
the
table
an
oval
glass
framed
in
ivory
Cupids
,
one
of
Lord
Henry
's
many
presents
to
him
,
glanced
hurriedly
into
its
polished
depths
.
No
line
like
that
warped
his
red
lips
.
What
did
it
mean
?
He
rubbed
his
eyes
,
and
came
close
to
the
picture
,
and
examined
it
again
.
There
were
no
signs
of
any
change
when
he
looked
into
the
actual
painting
,
and
yet
there
was
no
doubt
that
the
whole
expression
had
altered
.
It
was
not
a
mere
fancy
of
his
own
.
The
thing
was
horribly
apparent
.
He
threw
himself
into
a
chair
,
and
began
to
think
.
Suddenly
there
flashed
across
his
mind
what
he
had
said
in
Basil
Hallward
's
studio
the
day
the
picture
had
been
finished
.
Yes
,
he
remembered
it
perfectly
.
He
had
uttered
a
mad
wish
that
he
himself
might
remain
young
,
and
the
portrait
grow
old
;
that
his
own
beauty
might
be
untarnished
,
and
the
face
on
the
canvas
bear
the
burden
of
his
passions
and
his
sins
;
that
the
painted
image
might
be
seared
with
the
lines
of
suffering
and
thought
,
and
that
he
might
keep
all
the
delicate
bloom
and
loveliness
of
his
then
just
conscious
boyhood
.
Surely
his
wish
had
not
been
fulfilled
?
Such
things
were
impossible
.
It
seemed
monstrous
even
to
think
of
them
.
And
,
yet
,
there
was
the
picture
before
him
,
with
the
touch
of
cruelty
in
the
mouth
.
Cruelty
!
Had
he
been
cruel
?
It
was
the
girl
's
fault
,
not
his
.
He
had
dreamed
of
her
as
a
great
artist
,
had
given
his
love
to
her
because
he
had
thought
her
great
.
Then
she
had
disappointed
him
.
She
had
been
shallow
and
unworthy
.
And
,
yet
,
a
feeling
of
infinite
regret
came
over
him
,
as
he
thought
of
her
lying
at
his
feet
sobbing
like
a
little
child
.
He
remembered
with
what
callousness
he
had
watched
her
.
Why
had
he
been
made
like
that
?
Why
had
such
a
soul
been
given
to
him
?
But
he
had
suffered
also
.
During
the
three
terrible
hours
that
the
play
had
lasted
,
he
had
lived
centuries
of
pain
,
æon
upon
æon
of
torture
.
His
life
was
well
worth
hers
.
She
had
marred
him
for
a
moment
,
if
he
had
wounded
her
for
an
age
.
Besides
,
women
were
better
suited
to
bear
sorrow
than
men
.
They
lived
on
their
emotions
.
They
only
thought
of
their
emotions
.
When
they
took
lovers
,
it
was
merely
to
have
someone
with
whom
they
could
have
scenes
.
Lord
Henry
had
told
him
that
,
and
Lord
Henry
knew
what
women
were
.
Why
should
he
trouble
about
Sibyl
Vane
?
She
was
nothing
to
him
now
.
But
the
picture
?
What
was
he
to
say
of
that
?
It
held
the
secret
of
his
life
,
and
told
his
story
.
It
had
taught
him
to
love
his
own
beauty
.
Would
it
teach
him
to
loathe
his
own
soul
?
Would
he
ever
look
at
it
again
?
No
;
it
was
merely
an
illusion
wrought
on
the
troubled
senses
.
The
horrible
night
that
he
had
passed
had
left
phantoms
behind
it
.
Suddenly
there
had
fallen
upon
his
brain
that
tiny
scarlet
speck
that
makes
men
mad
.
The
picture
had
not
changed
.
It
was
folly
to
think
so
.
