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Lord Henry came over and examined the
picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art,
and a wonderful likeness as well.
"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most
swarmly," he said. "It is the finest portrait of modern
times. Mr Gray, come over and look at yourself."
The lad started, as if awakened from some
dream. "Is it really finished," he murmured,
stepping down from the platform.
"Quite finished," said the painter, and you have
sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully obliged to you."
"This is entirely due to me," broke in Lord
Henry. "Isn't it, Mr Gray?"
Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in
15 front of his picture, and turned towards it. When
he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed
for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came
into his eyes, as if he had recognised himself
for the first time. He stood there motionless and
20 in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was
speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of
his words. The sense of his own beauty came on
him like a revelation. He had never felt it before.
(...) As he stood gazing at the shadow of his own
> loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed
across him. Yes, there would be a day when his
face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim
and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and
deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his
30 lips, and the gold steal from his hair. (...) He would
become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. As he
thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through
him like a knife. [...]
"Don't you like it cried Hallward at last, stung
* a little by the lad's silence, not understanding what
it meant.
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