ecollection 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.

As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he
found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost
scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was
incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity
between the chemical atoms, that shaped themselves into form and colour
on the canvas, and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what
that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true?
Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt
afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture
in sickened horror.

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him
conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had b