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He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of

the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the

failing limbs.

There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in

his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the

little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed

name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would

think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that

was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. But

moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life which

Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the

garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification.

The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad hungers

that grew more ravenous as he fed them.