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Chapter 2

  • As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with hi_ack to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's "Fores_cenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them.
  • They are perfectly charming."
  • "That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian."
  • "Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't want a life-sized portrait of myself,"
  • answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulan_anner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheek_or a moment, and he started up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn't kno_ou had any one with you."
  • "This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have jus_een telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoile_verything."
  • "You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me abou_ou. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victim_lso."
  • "I am in Lady Agatha's black books at present," answered Dorian with a funn_ook of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her las_uesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a due_ogether—three duets, I believe. I don't know what she will say to me. I a_ar too frightened to call."
  • "Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And _on't think it really matters about your not being there. The audienc_robably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, sh_akes quite enough noise for two people."
  • "That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, laughing.
  • Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with hi_inely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. Ther_as something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour o_outh was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. One felt that h_ad kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshippe_im.
  • "You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray—far too charming."
  • And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case.
  • The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. H_as looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry's last remark, he glanced a_im, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish thi_icture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to g_way?"
  • Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" he asked.
  • "Oh, please don't, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can't bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why _hould not go in for philanthropy."
  • "I don't know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subjec_hat one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not ru_way, now that you have asked me to stop. You don't really mind, Basil, d_ou? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one t_hat to."
  • Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian'_hims are laws to everybody, except himself."
  • Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I a_fraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr.
  • Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always a_ome at five o'clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry t_iss you."
  • "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. Yo_ever open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standin_n a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it."
  • "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazin_ntently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunat_itters. I beg you to stay."
  • "But what about my man at the Orleans?"
  • The painter laughed. "I don't think there will be any difficulty about that.
  • Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don't mov_bout too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a ver_ad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."
  • Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, an_ade a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken _ancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he ha_uch a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really _ery bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?"
  • "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence i_mmoral—immoral from the scientific point of view."
  • "Why?"
  • "Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does no_hink his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues ar_ot real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. H_ecomes an echo of some one else's music, an actor of a part that has not bee_ritten for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's natur_erfectly—that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid o_hemselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the dut_hat one owes to one's self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed th_ungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked.
  • Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terro_f society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is th_ecret of religion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—"
  • "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,"
  • said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had com_nto the lad's face that he had never seen there before.
  • "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with tha_raceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and tha_e had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live out hi_ife fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression t_very thought, reality to every dream—I believe that the world would gain suc_ fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal— to something finer, richer than the Helleni_deal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. Th_utilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mar_ur lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive t_trangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has don_ith its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then bu_he recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to ge_id of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sic_ith longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for wha_ts monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that th_reat events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and th_rain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you hav_ad passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you wit_error, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain you_heek with shame—"
  • "Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know what t_ay. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't speak. Let m_hink. Or, rather, let me try not to think."
  • For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eye_trangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences wer_t work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself.
  • The few words that Basil's friend had said to him—words spoken by chance, n_oubt, and with wilful paradox in them— had touched some secret chord that ha_ever been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing t_urious pulses.
  • Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But musi_as not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that i_reated in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, an_ivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magi_here was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formles_hings, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute.
  • Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?
  • Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. H_nderstood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed t_im that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?
  • With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precis_sychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He wa_mazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, rememberin_ book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to hi_uch that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passin_hrough a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had i_it the mark? How fascinating the lad was!
  • Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had th_rue refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only fro_trength. He was unconscious of the silence.
  • "Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray suddenly. "I must go ou_nd sit in the garden. The air is stifling here."
  • "My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think of anythin_lse. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caugh_he effect I wanted— the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. _on't know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made yo_ave the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying yo_ompliments. You mustn't believe a word that he says."
  • "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reaso_hat I don't believe anything he has told me."
  • "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dream_anguorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot i_he studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something wit_trawberries in it."
  • "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell hi_hat you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you late_n. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for paintin_han I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece a_t stands."
  • Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face i_he great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if i_ad been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "Yo_re quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but th_enses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul."
  • The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tosse_is rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look o_ear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. Hi_inely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet o_is lips and left them trembling.
  • "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life— t_ure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. Yo_re a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as yo_now less than you want to know."
  • Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking th_all, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloure_ace and worn expression interested him. There was something in his lo_anguid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlik_ands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, an_eemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashame_f being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself?
  • He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them ha_ever altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seeme_o have disclosed to him life's mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afrai_f? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.
  • "Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out th_rinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself t_ecome sunburnt. It would be unbecoming."
  • "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the sea_t the end of the garden.
  • "It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray."
  • "Why?"
  • "Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing wort_aving."
  • "I don't feel that, Lord Henry."
  • "No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded you_ips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? … You have _onderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don't frown. You have. And beauty is _orm of genius— is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. I_s of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or th_eflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot b_uestioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of thos_ho have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile… . Peopl_ay sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least i_s not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders.
  • It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery o_he world is the visible, not the invisible… . Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods hav_een good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have onl_ few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your yout_oes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover tha_here are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with thos_ean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats.
  • Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time i_ealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will becom_allow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly… . Ah!
  • realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or givin_way your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are th_ickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life tha_s in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for ne_ensations. Be afraid of nothing… . A new Hedonism— that is what our centur_ants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothin_ou could not do. The world belongs to you for a season… . The moment I me_ou I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what yo_eally might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I mus_ell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if yo_ere wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last—such _ittle time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. Th_aburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will b_urple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of it_eaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The puls_f joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our sense_ot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passion_f which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we ha_ot the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in th_orld but youth!"
  • Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell fro_is hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment.
  • Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tin_lossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that w_ry to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we ar_tirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when som_hought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us t_ield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the staine_rumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swaye_ently to and fro.
  • Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccat_igns for them to come in. They turned to each other and smiled.
  • "I am waiting," he cried. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you ca_ring your drinks."
  • They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-whit_utterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of th_arden a thrush began to sing.
  • "You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at him.
  • "Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?"
  • "Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Wome_re so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it las_or ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a capric_nd a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer."
  • As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's arm.
  • "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at hi_wn boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose.
  • Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. Th_weep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke th_tillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at hi_ork from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the ope_oorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed t_rood over everything.
  • After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a lon_ime at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the en_f one of his huge brushes and frowning. "It is quite finished," he cried a_ast, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on th_eft-hand corner of the canvas.
  • Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderfu_ork of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.
  • "My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly," he said. "It is the fines_ortrait 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 a_wfully obliged to you."
  • "That is entirely due to me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray?"
  • Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture an_urned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for _oment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he ha_ecognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless and i_onder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catchin_he meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like _evelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments ha_eemed to him to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship. He ha_istened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced hi_ature. 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, an_ow, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full realit_f the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his fac_ould be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of hi_igure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips and th_old steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar hi_ody. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.
  • As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife an_ade each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened int_methyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of ic_ad been laid upon his heart.
  • "Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad'_ilence, not understanding what it meant.
  • "Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it? It is one o_he greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to as_or it. I must have it."
  • "It is not my property, Harry."
  • "Whose property is it?"
  • "Dorian's, of course," answered the painter.
  • "He is a very lucky fellow."
  • "How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his ow_ortrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. Bu_his picture will remain always young. It will never be older than thi_articular day of June… . If it were only the other way! If it were I who wa_o be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—_ould give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would no_ive! I would give my soul for that!"
  • "You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil," cried Lord Henry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on your work."
  • "I should object very strongly, Harry," said Hallward.
  • Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You lik_our art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronz_igure. Hardly as much, I dare say."
  • The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that.
  • What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheek_urning.
  • "Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silve_aun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have m_irst wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that.
  • Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having.
  • When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself."
  • Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don'_alk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never hav_uch another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?— you who ar_iner than any of them!"
  • "I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of th_ortrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Ever_oment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, i_t were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be alway_hat I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock m_orribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as thoug_e was praying.
  • "This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly.
  • Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray— that is all."
  • "It is not."
  • "If it is not, what have I to do with it?"
  • "You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered.
  • "I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry's answer.
  • "Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you bot_ou have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I wil_estroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come acros_ur three lives and mar them."
  • Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face an_ear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-tabl_hat was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? Hi_ingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thi_lade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up th_anvas.
  • With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over t_allward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of th_tudio. "Don't, Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would be murder!"
  • "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter coldl_hen he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you would."
  • "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I fee_hat."
  • "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sen_ome. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked across th_oom and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And s_ill you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?"
  • "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge of th_omplex. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows yo_re, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It wa_he most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is no_ational. I am glad he is not, after all— though I wish you chaps would no_quabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. Thi_illy boy doesn't really want it, and I really do."
  • "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" crie_orian Gray; "and I don't allow people to call me a silly boy."
  • "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed."
  • "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don'_eally object to being reminded that you are extremely young."
  • "I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry."
  • "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then."
  • There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tra_nd set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups an_aucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped chin_ishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out th_ea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was unde_he covers.
  • "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to b_omething on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but it is onl_ith an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that _m prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I thin_hat would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise o_andour."
  • "It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid."
  • "Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century i_etestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour- element left in modern life."
  • "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry."
  • "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in th_icture?"
  • "Before either."
  • "I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad.
  • "Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won't you?"
  • "I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do."
  • "Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray."
  • "I should like that awfully."
  • The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shal_tay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly.
  • "Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling acros_o him. "Am I really like that?"
  • "Yes; you are just like that."
  • "How wonderful, Basil!"
  • "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighe_allward. "That is something."
  • "What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why, even i_ove it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our ow_ill. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to b_aithless, and cannot: that is all one can say."
  • "Don't go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and dine wit_e."
  • "I can't, Basil."
  • "Why?"
  • "Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him."
  • "He won't like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks hi_wn. I beg you not to go."
  • Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.
  • "I entreat you."
  • The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them fro_he tea-table with an amused smile.
  • "I must go, Basil," he answered.
  • "Very well," said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on th_ray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose n_ime. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to- morrow."
  • "Certainly."
  • "You won't forget?"
  • "No, of course not," cried Dorian.
  • "And … Harry!"
  • "Yes, Basil?"
  • "Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning."
  • "I have forgotten it."
  • "I trust you."
  • "I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr. Gray, m_ansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. I_as been a most interesting afternoon."
  • As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, an_ look of pain came into his face.