oy that beats in us at twenty, becomes
sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous
puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much
afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to
yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but
youth!"

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell
from his 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 tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial
things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid,
or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find
expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to
the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He
saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The
flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.

Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio, and made
staccato signs 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 can bring your drinks."

They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white
butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of
the garden 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.
Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to
make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only
difference between a caprice and a life-long 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 his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and
resumed his pose.

Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.
The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that
broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to
look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed
through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. Th