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If the picture was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why

inquire too closely into it?

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be

able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait

would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed

to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And

when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring

trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood crept from its

face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he

would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his

loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life would ever

weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and

fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the

coloured image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was

everything.