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Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.

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"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture."

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There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! It was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at. The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue. The noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself.

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Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. He shuddered. I don't think I can go in, Alan, he murmured. It is nothing to me. I don't require you, said Campbell coldly. Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying.

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"Christ! What a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be."

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"Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. "Am I really like that?" "Yes, you are just like that." "How wonderful, Basil!" "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighed Hallward. "That is something."

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"How sad it is," murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June

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I don't believe it is my picture. Can't you see your ideal in it? Said Dorian bitterly. My ideal, as you call it. As you called it. There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr. It is the face of my soul

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Eighteen years. Set me under the lamp and look at my face. James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth.