Портрет Доріана Грея

           LordHenryflunghimselfintoalargewickerarm-chairandwatchedhim. Thesweepanddashofthebrushonthecanvasmadetheonlysoundthatbrokethestillness, exceptwhen,nowandthen,Hallwardsteppedbacktolookathisworkfromadistance. Intheslantingbeamsthatstreamedthroughtheopendoorwaythedustdancedandwasgolden. Theheavyscentoftherosesseemedtobroodovereverything. 

           AfteraboutaquarterofanhourHallwardstoppedpainting,lookedforalongtimeatDorianGray,andthenforalongtimeatthepicture, bitingtheendofoneofhishugebrushes,andfrowning. "Itisquitefinished,"hecriedatlast, andstoopingdownhewrotehisnameinlongvermilionlettersontheleft-handcornerofthecanvas. 

           LordHenrycameoverandexaminedthepicture. Itwascertainlyawonderfulworkofart,andawonderfullikenessaswell. 

           "Mydearfellow,Icongratulateyoumostwarmly,"hesaid. "Itisthefinestportraitofmoderntimes.Mr.Gray,comeoverandlookatyourself." 

           Theladstarted,asifawakenedfromsomedream. "Isitreallyfinished?"hemurmured,steppingdownfromtheplatform. 

           "Quitefinished,"saidthepainter. "Andyouhavesatsplendidlyto-day.Iamawfullyobligedtoyou." 

           "Thatisentirelyduetome,"brokeinLordHenry. "Isn’tit,Mr.Gray?" 

           Dorianmadenoanswer,butpassedlistlesslyinfrontofhispicture,andturnedtowardsit. Whenhesawithedrewback,andhischeeksflushedforamomentwithpleasure. Alookofjoycameintohiseyes,asifhehadrecognisedhimselfforthefirsttime. Hestoodtheremotionlessandinwonder,dimlyconsciousthatHallwardwasspeakingtohim,butnotcatchingthemeaningofhiswords.