away. Basil would
have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still more
poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that
he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was not
noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of
beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire.
It was such love as Michael Angelo had known, and Montaigne, and
Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him.
But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret,
denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable.
There were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams
that would make the shadow of their evil real.

He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered
it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face
on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was unchanged;
and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and
rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the expression that
had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw
in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil's reproaches about Sibyl
Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little account! His own soul
was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgment. A
look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the
picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his
servant entered.

"The persons are here, Monsieur."

He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed
to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly
about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the
writing-table, he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him
round something to read, and reminding him that they were to meet at
eight-fifteen that evening.

"Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in
here."

In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard
himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with
a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a florid,
red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably
tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who
dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He wai