is rather the painter who, on
the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this
picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own
soul."

Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked.

"I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came
over his face.

"I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him.

"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter;
"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly
believe it."

Lord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from
the grass, and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he
replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, "and
as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it is
quite incredible."

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms,
with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. A
grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long
thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. Lord Henry felt
as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and wondered what
was coming.

"The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two
months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor artists
have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the
public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as
you told me once, anybody, even a stockbroker, can gain a reputation for
being civilised. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes,
talking to huge over-dressed dowagers and tedious Academicians, I
suddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me. I turned
halfway round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes
met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came
over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere
personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would
absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not
want any external influence in my life. You know yourself, Harry, how
independent I am by nature. I have always been my own master; had at
least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then---- but I don't know
how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the
verge of a terrible crisis in