y the other way! If the picture could
change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It
will mock me some day--mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his
eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he
buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.

"This is your doing, Harry," said the painter, bitterly.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray--that is
all."

"It is not."

"If it is not, what have I to do with it?"

"You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered.

"I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry's answer.

"Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between
you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever
done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will
not let it come across our three lives and mar them."

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face
and tear-stained eyes looked at him, as he walked over to the deal
painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was
he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin
tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long
palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at
last. He was going to rip up the canvas.

With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to
Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the
studio. "Don't, Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would be murder!"

"I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter,
coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you
would."

"Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I
feel that."

"Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and
sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked
across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of
course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple
pleasures?"

"I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge
of the complex. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage. What
absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as
a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man
is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all:
though I wi