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Yet
it
was
watching
him
,
with
its
beautiful
marred
face
and
its
cruel
smile
.
Its
bright
hair
gleamed
in
the
early
sunlight
.
Its
blue
eyes
met
his
own
.
A
sense
of
infinite
pity
,
not
for
himself
,
but
for
the
painted
image
of
himself
,
came
over
him
.
It
had
altered
already
,
and
would
alter
more
.
Its
gold
would
wither
into
grey
.
Its
red
and
white
roses
would
die
.
For
every
sin
that
he
committed
,
a
stain
would
fleck
and
wreck
its
fairness
.
But
he
would
not
sin
.
The
picture
,
changed
or
unchanged
,
would
be
to
him
the
visible
emblem
of
conscience
.
He
would
resist
temptation
.
He
would
not
see
Lord
Henry
any
more
--
would
not
,
at
any
rate
,
listen
to
those
subtle
poisonous
theories
that
in
Basil
Hallward
's
garden
had
first
stirred
within
him
the
passion
for
impossible
things
.
He
would
go
back
to
Sibyl
Vane
,
make
her
amends
,
marry
her
,
try
to
love
her
again
.
Yes
,
it
was
his
duty
to
do
so
.
She
must
have
suffered
more
than
he
had
.
Poor
child
!
He
had
been
selfish
and
cruel
to
her
.
The
fascination
that
she
had
exercised
over
him
would
return
.
They
would
be
happy
together
.
His
life
with
her
would
be
beautiful
and
pure
.
He
got
up
from
his
chair
,
and
drew
a
large
screen
right
in
front
of
the
portrait
,
shuddering
as
he
glanced
at
it
.
"
How
horrible
!
"
he
murmured
to
himself
,
and
he
walked
across
to
the
window
and
opened
it
.
When
he
stepped
out
on
to
the
grass
,
he
drew
a
deep
breath
.
The
fresh
morning
air
seemed
to
drive
away
all
his
sombre
passions
.
He
thought
only
of
Sibyl
.
A
faint
echo
of
his
love
came
back
to
him
.
He
repeated
her
name
over
and
over
again
.
The
birds
that
were
singing
in
the
dew-drenched
garden
seemed
to
be
telling
the
flowers
about
her
.
It
was
long
past
noon
when
he
awoke
.
His
valet
had
crept
several
times
on
tiptoe
into
the
room
to
see
if
he
was
stirring
,
and
had
wondered
what
made
his
young
master
sleep
so
late
.
Finally
his
bell
sounded
,
and
Victor
came
softly
in
with
a
cup
of
tea
,
and
a
pile
of
letters
,
on
a
small
tray
of
old
Sèvres
china
,
and
drew
back
the
olive-satin
curtains
,
with
their
shimmering
blue
lining
,
that
hung
in
front
of
the
three
tall
windows
.
"
Monsieur
has
well
slept
this
morning
,
"
he
said
,
smiling
.
"
What
o'clock
o'clock
is
it
,
Victor
?
"
asked
Dorian
Gray
,
drowsily
.
"
One
hour
and
a
quarter
,
Monsieur
.
"
How
late
it
was
!
He
sat
up
,
and
,
having
sipped
some
tea
,
turned
over
his
letters
.
One
of
them
was
from
Lord
Henry
,
and
had
been
brought
by
hand
that
morning
.
He
hesitated
for
a
moment
,
and
then
put
it
aside
.
The
others
he
opened
listlessly
.
They
contained
the
usual
collection
of
cards
,
invitations
to
dinner
,
tickets
for
private
views
,
programmes
of
charity
concerts
,
and
the
like
,
that
are
showered
on
fashionable
young
men
every
morning
during
the
season
.
There
was
a
rather
heavy
bill
,
for
a
chased
silver
Louis-Quinze
toilet-set
,
that
he
had
not
yet
had
the
courage
to
send
on
to
his
guardians
,
who
were
extremely
old-fashioned
people
and
did
not
realise
that
we
live
in
an
age
when
unnecessary
things
are
our
only
necessities
;
and
there
were
several
very
courteously
worded
communiations
from
Jermyn
Street
money-lenders
offering
to
advance
any
sum
of
money
at
a
moment
's
notice
and
at
the
most
reasonable
rates
of
interest
.
After
about
ten
minutes
he
got
up
,
and
,
throwing
on
an
elaborate
dressing-gown
of
silk-embroidered
cashmere
wool
,
passed
into
the
onyx-paved
bathroom
.
The
cool
water
refreshed
him
after
his
long
sleep
.
He
seemed
to
have
forgotten
all
that
he
had
gone
through
.
A
dim
sense
of
having
taken
part
in
some
strange
tragedy
came
to
him
once
or
twice
,
but
there
was
the
unreality
of
a
dream
about
it
.
