able an oval glass framed in ivory
Cupids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into
its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it
mean?

He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it
again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual
painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had
altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly
apparent.

He threw himself into a chair, and began to think. Suddenly there
flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the
day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He
had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the
portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the
face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that
the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and
thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of
his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled?
Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them.
And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in
the mouth.

Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He had
dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he
had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been
shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over
him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child.
He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been
made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he had
suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted,
he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was
well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her
for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men.
They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their emotions. When
they took lovers, it was merely to have someone with whom they could
have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew what
women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to
him now.

But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his
life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beau