e heavy scent
of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a
long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,
biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and frowning. "It is quite
finished," he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long
vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a
wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly," he said. "It is the
finest portrait 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 am awfully 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,
and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks
flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as
if he had recognised himself for the first time. He stood there
motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to
him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own
beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil
Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming
exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them,
forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. 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, and now, as he stood
gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the
description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face
would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of
his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his
lips, and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his
soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.

As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a
knife, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes
deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as
if a hand o