Портрет Доріана Грея

           Whenthecoffeeandcigaretteshadbeenbroughtandthemanturnedtogo,hefeltawilddesiretotellhimtoremain. Asthedoorwasclosingbehindhimhecalledhimback. Themanstoodwaitingforhisorders. Dorianlookedathimforamoment. "Iamnotathometoanyone,Victor,"hesaid,withasigh. Themanbowedandretired. 

           Thenherosefromthetable,litacigarette,andflunghimselfdownonaluxuriously-cushionedcouchthatstoodfacingthescreen. Thescreenwasanoldone,ofgiltSpanishleather,stampedandwroughtwitharatherfloridLouis-Quatorzepattern. Hescanneditcuriously,wonderingifeverbeforeithadconcealedthesecretofaman’slife. 

           Shouldhemoveitaside,afterall? Whynotletitstaythere? Whatwastheuseofknowing? Ifthethingwastrue,itwasterrible. Ifitwasnottrue,whytroubleaboutit? Butwhatif,bysomefateordeadlierchance,eyesotherthanhisspiedbehind,andsawthehorriblechange? WhatshouldhedoifBasilHallwardcameandaskedtolookathisownpicture? Basilwouldbesuretodothat. No;thethinghadtobeexamined,andatonce. Anythingwouldbebetterthanthisdreadfulstateofdoubt. 

           Hegotup,andlockedbothdoors. Atleasthewouldbealonewhenhelookeduponthemaskofhisshame. Thenhedrewthescreenaside,andsawhimselffacetoface. Itwasperfectlytrue. Theportraithadaltered. 

           Asheoftenrememberedafterwards,andalwayswithnosmallwonder,hefoundhimselfatfirstgazingattheportraitwithafeelingofalmostscientificinterest. Thatsuchachangeshouldhavetakenplacewasincredibletohim. Andyetitwasafact.