into it?

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to
follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him
the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so
it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he
would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer.
When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of
chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one
blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life
would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and
fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured
image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.

He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,
smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was
already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the Opera, and Lord
Henry was leaning over his chair.

CHAPTER IX

As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown
into the room.

"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian," he said, gravely. "I called
last night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew
that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really
gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might
be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me when
you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late edition of
_The Globe_, that I picked up at the club. I came here at once, and was
miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how heartbroken I am
about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you?
Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For a moment I thought of
following you there. They gave the address in the paper. Somewhere in
the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow
that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a state she must be in! And
her only child, too! What did she say about it all?"

"My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some
pale-yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass,
and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the Opera. You should have come
on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first time. We
were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.
Don't tal