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Portrait of Dorian Gray
The
studio
was
filled
with
the
rich
odour
of
roses
,
and
when
the
light
summer
wind
stirred
amidst
the
trees
of
the
garden
,
there
came
through
the
open
door
the
heavy
scent
of
the
lilac
,
or
the
more
delicate
perfume
of
the
pink-flowering
thorn
.
From
the
corner
of
the
divan
of
Persian
saddle-bags
on
which
he
was
lying
,
smoking
,
as
was
his
custom
,
innumerable
cigarettes
,
Lord
Henry
Wotton
could
just
catch
the
gleam
of
the
honey-sweet
and
honey-coloured
blossoms
of
a
laburnum
,
whose
tremulous
branches
seemed
hardly
able
to
bear
the
burden
of
a
beauty
so
flame-like
as
theirs
;
and
now
and
then
the
fantastic
shadows
of
birds
in
flight
flitted
across
the
long
tussore-silk
curtains
that
were
stretched
in
front
of
the
huge
window
,
producing
a
kind
of
momentary
Japanese
effect
,
and
making
him
think
of
those
pallid
,
jade-faced
painters
of
Tokyo
who
,
through
the
medium
of
an
art
that
is
necessarily
immobile
,
seek
to
convey
the
sense
of
swiftness
and
motion
.
The
sullen
murmur
of
the
bees
shouldering
their
way
through
the
long
unmown
grass
,
or
circling
with
monotonous
insistence
round
the
dusty
gilt
horns
of
the
straggling
woodbine
,
seemed
to
make
the
stillness
more
oppressive
.
The
dimroar
of
London
was
like
the
bourdon
note
of
a
distant
organ
.
In
the
centre
of
the
room
,
clamped
to
an
upright
easel
,
stood
the
full-length
portrait
of
a
young
man
of
extraordinary
personal
beauty
,
and
in
front
of
it
,
some
little
distance
away
,
was
sitting
the
artist
himself
,
Basil
Hallward
,
whose
sudden
disappearance
some
years
ago
caused
,
at
the
time
,
such
public
excitement
and
gave
rise
to
so
many
strange
conjectures
.
As
he
looked
at
the
gracious
and
comely
form
he
had
so
skilfully
mirrored
in
his
art
,
a
smile
of
pleasure
passed
across
his
face
,
and
seemed
about
to
linger
there
.
But
he
suddenly
started
up
,
and
,
closing
his
eyes
,
placed
his
fingers
upon
the
lids
,
as
though
he
sought
to
imprison
within
his
brain
some
curious
dream
from
which
he
feared
he
might
awake
.
"
It
is
your
best
work
,
Basil
,
the
best
thing
you
have
ever
done
,
"
said
Lord
Henry
,
languidly
.
"
You
must
certainly
send
it
next
year
to
the
Grosvenor
.
The
Academy
is
too
large
and
too
vulgar
.
Whenever
I
have
gone
there
,
there
have
been
either
so
many
people
that
I
have
not
been
able
to
see
the
pictures
,
which
was
dreadful
,
or
so
many
pictures
that
I
have
not
been
able
to
see
the
people
,
which
was
worse
.
The
Grosvenor
is
really
the
only
place
.
"
"
I
do
n't
think
I
shall
send
it
anywhere
,
"
he
answered
,
tossing
his
head
back
in
that
odd
way
that
used
to
make
his
friends
laugh
at
him
at
Oxford
.
"
No
:
I
wo
n't
send
it
anywhere
.
"
Lord
Henry
elevated
his
eyebrows
,
and
looked
at
him
in
amazement
through
the
thin
blue
wreaths
of
smoke
that
curled
up
in
such
fanciful
whorls
from
his
heavy
opium-tainted
cigarette
.
"
Not
send
it
anywhere
?
My
dear
fellow
,
why
?
Have
you
any
reason
?
What
odd
chaps
you
painters
are
!
You
do
anything
in
the
world
to
gain
a
reputation
.
As
soon
as
you
have
one
,
you
seem
to
want
to
throw
it
away
.
It
is
silly
of
you
,
for
there
is
only
one
thing
in
the
world
worse
than
being
talked
about
,
and
that
is
not
being
talked
about
.
A
portrait
like
this
would
set
you
far
above
all
the
young
men
in
England
,
and
make
the
old
men
quite
jealous
,
if
old
men
are
ever
capable
of
any
emotion
.
"
"
I
know
you
will
laugh
at
me
,
"
he
replied
,
"
but
I
really
ca
n't
exhibit
it
.
I
have
put
too
much
of
myself
into
it
.
"
Lord
Henry
stretched
himself
out
on
the
divan
and
laughed
.
