n exclamation of horror broke from the painters lips as ..t>saw in the dim light the hideous fa the vas grinning at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Grays 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 ihinning 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 pletely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had do? He seemed tnize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted dle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand er was his own raced in loers ht vermilion.
It was some foul parody, some infamous igire. He had never dohat. Still, it was his own picture. He k, and he felt as if his blood had ged 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 uo articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.
The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watg him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is ag. There was her real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.
"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears.
"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, &q