t yet told him the colour of my frock."

"Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys."

"That would be a premature surrender."

"Romantic Art begins with its climax."

"I must keep an opportunity for retreat."

"In the Parthian manner?"

"They found safety in the desert. I could not do that."

"Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he
finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came
a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody
started up. The Duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in his
eyes Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian Gray
lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a death-like swoon.

He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room, and laid upon one of
the sofas. After a short time he came to himself, and looked round with
a dazed expression.

"What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?"
He began to tremble.

"My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was
all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to
dinner. I will take your place."

"No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather
come down. I must not be alone."

He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of gaiety
in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror
ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of
the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of
James Vane watching him.

CHAPTER XVIII

The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the
time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet
indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,
tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble
in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the
leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild
regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face peering
through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its
hand upon his heart.

But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of
the night, and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual
life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the
imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog