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Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself

down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the

screen. The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather,

stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern.

He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had

concealed the secret of a man's life.

Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there?

What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was

terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it? But what if,

by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind

and saw the horrible change? What should he do if Basil Hallward

came and asked to look at his own picture? Basil would be sure to

do that. No; the thing had to be examined, and at once. Anything

would be better than this dreadful state of doubt.