Портрет Доріана Грея

           Hismotherwaswaitingforhimbelow. Shegrumbledathisunpunctuality,asheentered. Hemadenoanswer,butsatdowntohismeagremeal. Thefliesbuzzedroundthetable,andcrawledoverthestainedcloth. Throughtherumbleofomnibuses,andtheclatterofstreet-cabs,hecouldhearthedroningvoicedevouringeachminutethatwaslefttohim. 

           Aftersometime,hethrustawayhisplate,andputhisheadinhishands. Hefeltthathehadarighttoknow. Itshouldhavebeentoldtohimbefore,ifitwasashesuspected. Leadenwithfear,hismotherwatchedhim. Wordsdroppedmechanicallyfromherlips.Atatteredlacehandkerchieftwitchedinherfingers. Whentheclockstrucksix,hegotup,andwenttothedoor.Thenheturnedback,andlookedather. Theireyesmet.Inhershesawawildappealformercy.Itenragedhim. 

           "Mother,Ihavesomethingtoaskyou,"hesaid.Hereyeswanderedvaguelyabouttheroom.Shemadenoanswer. "Tellmethetruth.Ihavearighttoknow.Wereyoumarriedtomyfather?" 

           Sheheavedadeepsigh.Itwasasighofrelief. Theterriblemoment,themomentthatnightandday,forweeksandmonths,shehaddreaded,hadcomeatlast,andyetshefeltnoterror. Indeedinsomemeasureitwasadisappointmenttoher.Thevulgardirectnessofthequestioncalledforadirectanswer. Thesituationhadnotbeengraduallyledupto.Itwascrude. Itremindedherofabadrehearsal. 

           "No,"sheanswered,wonderingattheharshsimplicityoflife. 

           "Myfatherwasascoundrelthen?"criedthelad,clenchinghisfists.