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He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined

it again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into

the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole

expression had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The

thing was horribly apparent.

He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there

flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's

studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered

it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might

remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty

might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden

of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be

seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might

keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just

conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled? Such

things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of

them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch

of cruelty in the mouth.