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As
soon
as
he
was
dressed
,
he
went
into
the
library
and
sat
down
to
a
light
French
breakfast
,
that
had
been
laid
out
for
him
on
a
small
round
table
close
to
the
open
window
.
It
was
an
exquisite
day
.
The
warm
air
seemed
laden
with
spices
.
A
bee
flew
in
,
and
buzzed
round
the
blue-dragon
bowl
that
,
filled
with
sulphur-yellow
roses
,
stood
before
him
.
He
felt
perfectly
happy
.
Suddenly
his
eye
fell
on
the
screen
that
he
had
placed
in
front
of
the
portrait
,
and
he
started
.
"
Too
cold
for
Monsieur
?
"
asked
his
valet
,
putting
an
omelette
on
the
table
.
"
I
shut
the
window
?
"
Dorian
shook
his
head
.
"
I
am
not
cold
,
"
he
murmured
.
Was
it
all
true
?
Had
the
portrait
really
changed
?
Or
had
it
been
simply
his
own
imagination
that
had
made
him
see
a
look
of
evil
where
there
had
been
a
look
of
joy
?
Surely
a
painted
canvas
could
not
alter
?
The
thing
was
absurd
.
It
would
serve
as
a
tale
to
tell
Basil
some
day
.
It
would
make
him
smile
.
And
,
yet
,
how
vivid
was
his
recollection
of
the
whole
thing
!
First
in
the
dim
twilight
,
and
then
in
the
bright
dawn
,
he
had
seen
the
touch
of
cruelty
round
the
warped
lips
.
He
almost
dreaded
his
valet
leaving
the
room
.
He
knew
that
when
he
was
alone
he
would
have
to
examine
the
portrait
.
He
was
afraid
of
certainty
.
When
the
coffee
and
cigarettes
had
been
brought
and
the
man
turned
to
go
,
he
felt
a
wild
desire
to
tell
him
to
remain
.
As
the
door
was
closing
behind
him
he
called
him
back
.
The
man
stood
waiting
for
his
orders
.
Dorian
looked
at
him
for
a
moment
.
"
I
am
not
at
home
to
anyone
,
Victor
,
"
he
said
,
with
a
sigh
.
The
man
bowed
and
retired
.
Then
he
rose
from
the
table
,
lit
a
cigarette
,
and
flung
himself
down
on
a
luxuriously-cushioned
couch
that
stood
facing
the
screen
.
The
screen
was
an
old
one
,
of
gilt
Spanish
leather
,
stamped
and
wrought
with
a
rather
florid
Louis-Quatorze
pattern
.
He
scanned
it
curiously
,
wondering
if
ever
before
it
had
concealed
the
secret
of
a
man
's
life
.
Should
he
move
it
aside
,
after
all
?
Why
not
let
it
stay
there
?
What
was
the
use
of
knowing
?
If
the
thing
was
true
,
it
was
terrible
.
If
it
was
not
true
,
why
trouble
about
it
?
But
what
if
,
by
some
fate
or
deadlier
chance
,
eyes
other
than
his
spied
behind
,
and
saw
the
horrible
change
?
What
should
he
do
if
Basil
Hallward
came
and
asked
to
look
at
his
own
picture
?
Basil
would
be
sure
to
do
that
.
No
;
the
thing
had
to
be
examined
,
and
at
once
.
Anything
would
be
better
than
this
dreadful
state
of
doubt
.
He
got
up
,
and
locked
both
doors
.
At
least
he
would
be
alone
when
he
looked
upon
the
mask
of
his
shame
.
Then
he
drew
the
screen
aside
,
and
saw
himself
face
to
face
.
It
was
perfectly
true
.
The
portrait
had
altered
.
