night at the theatre. When he
thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the
world's stage to show the supreme reality of Love. A wonderful tragic
figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her childlike look, and
winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He brushed them away
hastily, and looked again at the picture.

He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his
choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him--life, and
his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion,
pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have
all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that
was all.

A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that
was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of
Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that
now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before
the portrait, wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it
seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which he
yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be hidden
away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so
often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The pity
of it! the pity of it!

For a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that
existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in
answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain
unchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything about Life, would surrender
the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance
might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?
Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that
had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious
scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence
upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon
dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,
might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods
and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love of strange affinity?
But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a
prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter.
That was all. Why inquire too closely