Портрет Доріана Грея

           Thecoolwaterrefreshedhimafterhislongsleep. Heseemedtohaveforgottenallthathehadgonethrough. Adimsenseofhavingtakenpartinsomestrangetragedycametohimonceortwice,buttherewastheunrealityofadreamaboutit. 

           Assoonashewasdressed,hewentintothelibraryandsatdowntoalightFrenchbreakfast,thathadbeenlaidoutforhimonasmallroundtableclosetotheopenwindow. Itwasanexquisiteday. Thewarmairseemedladenwithspices. Abeeflewin,andbuzzedroundtheblue-dragonbowlthat,filledwithsulphur-yellowroses,stoodbeforehim. Hefeltperfectlyhappy. 

           Suddenlyhiseyefellonthescreenthathehadplacedinfrontoftheportrait,andhestarted. 

           "ToocoldforMonsieur? "askedhisvalet,puttinganomeletteonthetable. "Ishutthewindow?" 

           Dorianshookhishead. "Iamnotcold,"hemurmured. 

           Wasitalltrue? Hadtheportraitreallychanged? Orhaditbeensimplyhisownimaginationthathadmadehimseealookofevilwheretherehadbeenalookofjoy? Surelyapaintedcanvascouldnotalter? Thethingwasabsurd. ItwouldserveasataletotellBasilsomeday. Itwouldmakehimsmile. 

           And,yet,howvividwashisrecollectionofthewholething! Firstinthedimtwilight,andtheninthebrightdawn,hehadseenthetouchofcrueltyroundthewarpedlips. Healmostdreadedhisvaletleavingtheroom. Heknewthatwhenhewasalonehewouldhavetoexaminetheportrait. Hewasafraidofcertainty.