y, as men do instinctively at
night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A
rising wind made some of the windows rattle.

When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the
floor, and taking out the key turned it in the lock. "You insist on
knowing, Basil?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Yes."

"I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat harshly,
"You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything
about me. You have had more to do with my life than you think:" and,
taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold current of
air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky
orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he
placed the lamp on the table.

Hallward glanced round him, with a puzzled expression. The room looked
as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a
curtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty
bookcase--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a
table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was
standing on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the whole place was covered
with dust, and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling
behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.

"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that
curtain back, and you will see mine."

The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or
playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.

"You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man; and he tore
the curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground.

An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the
dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was
something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.
Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at! The
horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous
beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet
on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the
loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed
away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian
himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognise his own brush-work,
and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt
afr