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Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold," he murmured.

Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been

simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil

where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could

not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell

Basil some day. It would make him smile.

And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing!

First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had

seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips. He almost

dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that when he was

alone he would have to examine the portrait. He was afraid of

certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and

the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to

remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him back.

The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a

moment. "I am not at home to any one, Victor," he said with a

sigh. The man bowed and retired.