Chapter 10

When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor’s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard.

When his servant entered, Dorian stared at him and wondered if he had thought of looking behind the screen. The man showed no emotion and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette, walked over to the mirror, and glanced into it. He could see Victor’s face perfectly in the reflection. It was like a calm mask of obedience. There was nothing to fear in that face. Still, Dorian thought it best to stay on his guard.

Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his own fancy?

Speaking very slowly, he told him to ask the housekeeper to come and see him. Then he was to go to the frame maker and ask him to send two of his men over at once. As the man left the room, his eyes seemed to wander toward the screen. Or was he merely imagining it?

After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He asked her for the key of the schoolroom.

A few moments later, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. She wore a black silk dress and old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands. He asked her for the key to the schoolroom.

“The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed. “Why, it is full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed.”

“The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed. “Why, it’s full of dust. I must tidy it up before you go in. It’s not fit for you to see, sir. It really isn’t.”

“I don’t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.”

“I don’t want it tidied up, Leaf. I only want the key.”

“Well, sir, you’ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it hasn’t been opened for nearly five years—not since his lordship died.”

“Well, sir, you’ll be covered in cobwebs if you go in there. It hasn’t been opened for nearly five years, not since his lordship died.”

He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of him. “That does not matter,” he answered. “I simply want to see the place—that is all. Give me the key.”

He winced when his grandfather was mentioned. He had hateful memories of him. “That doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I just want to see the place. That’s all. Give me the key.”

“And here is the key, sir,” said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. “Here is the key. I’ll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don’t think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?”

“And here is the key, sir,” said the old lady, searching through her bunch of keys with trembling, uncertain hands. “Here is the key. I’ll take it off the bunch in a moment. But you’re not thinking of living up there, sir, when you’re so comfortable here?”

“No, no,” he cried petulantly. “Thank you, Leaf. That will do.”

“No, no,” he cried in an irritated tone. “Thank you, Leaf. That will do.”

She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.

She stayed a few moments longer, talking at length about some household detail. He sighed and told her to handle it as she thought best. She left the room, beaming.

As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself—something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still live on. It would be always alive.

As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked around the room. He noticed a large purple satin coverlet, richly embroidered with gold. It was a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work. His grandfather had found it in a convent near Bologna. Yes, the coverlet would do for wrapping the dreadful thing. It had perhaps often been used to cover the dead. Now it would hide something with a decay of its own, worse than the decay of death itself. This thing would breed horrors and yet never die. His sins would do to the painted image on the canvas what worms do to a corpse. They would spoil its beauty and eat away at its grace. They would defile the image and make it shameful. And yet the thing would live on. It would always be alive.

He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henry’s influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that he bore him—for it was really love—had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real.

He shuddered. For a moment, he regretted not telling Basil the real reason he had wanted to hide the picture. Basil would have helped him resist Lord Henry’s influence and the even more poisonous influences of his own nature. Basil’s love for him was truly love, and it was entirely noble and intellectual. It was not simply physical admiration for beauty, born of the senses and lost when the senses grow tired. It was the kind of love Michelangelo, Montaigne, Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself had known. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But now it was too late. The past could always be wiped out. Regret, denial, or forgetting could do that. But the future was inevitable. The passions within him would find a terrible outlet. His dreams would make their shadowy evil real.

He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips—they all were there. It was simply the expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil’s reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!—how shallow, and of what little account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his servant entered.

He picked up the great purple and gold fabric that covered the couch. Holding it in his hands, he went behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas uglier than before? It seemed unchanged, yet he hated it even more. The gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips were all still there. Only the expression had changed. It was horrible in its cruelty. The face seemed to condemn and rebuke him. Compared with that, Basil’s reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been so shallow, so insignificant! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas, calling him to judgment. Pain crossed his face, and he flung the rich cloth over the picture. As he did, someone knocked at the door. He went out as his servant entered.

“The persons are here, Monsieur.”

“The people are here, sir.”

He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening.

He felt he had to get rid of the man at once. The man must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken. There was something sly about him, and his eyes were thoughtful and treacherous. He sat down at the writing table and scribbled a note to Lord Henry. He asked Lord Henry to send him something to read and reminded him they were meeting at eight fifteen that evening.

“Wait for an answer,” he said, handing it to him, “and show the men in here.”

“Wait for an answer,” he said, handing it to him, “and bring the men in here.”

In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.

Two or three minutes later, there was another knock. Mr. Hubbard himself came in with a rather rough-looking young assistant. He was the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street. Mr. Hubbard was a small, ruddy man with red whiskers. He admired art, though his admiration was considerably tempered by the constant lack of money of most artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception for Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. Even seeing him was a pleasure.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. “I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbing his fat, freckled hands. “I thought I would do myself the honor of coming in person. I have just found a beautiful frame, sir. I picked it up at a sale. It’s an old Florentine frame. I believe it came from Fonthill. It’s perfectly suited to a religious subject, Mr. Gray.”

“I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame—though I don’t go in much at present for religious art—but to-day I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.”

“I’m so sorry you had to come all this way, Mr. Hubbard. I’ll certainly stop by and look at the frame, though I’m not very interested in religious art at the moment. But today I only need a picture carried to the top of the house. It’s rather heavy, so I thought I’d ask you to lend me two of your men.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you. Which is the work of art, sir?”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I’m happy to help in any way I can. Which one is the work of art, sir?”

“This,” replied Dorian, moving the screen back. “Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? I don’t want it to get scratched going upstairs.”

“This,” Dorian said, moving the screen back. “Can you move it just as it is, with the covering on? I don’t want it to get scratched on the way upstairs.”

“There will be no difficulty, sir,” said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. “And, now, where shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?”

“There will be no problem, sir,” said the friendly frame-maker. He and his assistant began unhooking the picture from the long brass chains holding it up. “Now, where should we carry it, Mr. Gray?”

“I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider.”

“I’ll show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you’ll follow me. Or perhaps you should go first. I’m afraid it’s right at the top of the house. We’ll take the front stairs because they’re wider.”

He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman’s spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them.

He held the door open for them, and they went into the hall and began to climb the stairs. The elaborate frame made the picture very bulky, so Dorian occasionally put a hand on it to help them. Mr. Hubbard protested every time, in an overly deferential way. Like a true tradesman, he strongly disliked seeing a gentleman do anything useful.

“Something of a load to carry, sir,” gasped the little man when they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.

“Quite a load to carry, sir,” gasped the little man when they reached the top landing. He wiped his shiny forehead.

“I am afraid it is rather heavy,” murmured Dorian as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.

“I’m afraid it’s rather heavy,” Dorian murmured as he unlocked the door to the room. The room would keep the strange secret of his life and hide his soul from other people’s eyes.

He had not entered the place for more than four years—not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little changed. There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him!

He had not entered the room for more than four years. He had first used it as a playroom as a child, and then as a study when he grew a little older. It was a large, well-proportioned room, specially built by the last Lord Kelso for his young grandson. Lord Kelso had always hated the boy and wanted to keep him at a distance. This was partly because of his strange resemblance to his mother, and partly for other reasons. The room seemed to Dorian to have changed very little. There was the huge Italian cassone, a chest with fantastically painted panels and tarnished gilt trim. He had hidden in it so often as a boy. There was the satinwood bookcase filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it hung the same ragged Flemish tapestry. In it, a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden. A group of falconers rode past, carrying hooded birds on their gloved wrists. How well he remembered it all! As he looked around, every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him. He recalled the spotless purity of his childhood. It seemed horrible to him that the fatal portrait was to be hidden here. How little he had thought, in those long-gone days, of all that lay ahead of him!

But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth—that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh—those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward’s masterpiece.

But no other place in the house was as safe from prying eyes as this one. He had the key, and no one else could enter. Beneath its purple cover, the face on the canvas could become animal-like, bloated, and filthy. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch the horrible corruption of his soul? He kept his youth. That was enough. And besides, might his nature not become finer after all? There was no reason the future should be so full of shame. Some love might enter his life, purify him, and protect him from sin. Those sins already seemed to be stirring in his spirit and his flesh. They were strange, unimaginable sins whose mystery gave them their subtlety and charm. Perhaps, someday, the cruel look would disappear from the scarlet, sensitive mouth. Then he might show Basil Hallward’s masterpiece to the world.

No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow’s feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it.

No, that was impossible. Hour by hour, week by week, the figure on the canvas was growing old. It might escape the ugliness of sin, but the ugliness of age awaited it. Its cheeks would become hollow or sag. Yellow crow’s feet would creep around its fading eyes and make them horrible. Its hair would lose its brightness. Its mouth would hang open or droop, looking foolish or ugly, like the mouths of old men. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, and the twisted body. He remembered them from his grandfather, who had been so strict with him as a boy. The picture had to be hidden. There was no other choice.

“Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please,” he said, wearily, turning round. “I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.”

“Please bring it in, Mr. Hubbard,” he said tiredly, turning around. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long. I was thinking about something else.”

“Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,” answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. “Where shall we put it, sir?”

“Always glad to take a break, Mr. Gray,” said the frame-maker, still gasping for breath. “Where should we put it, sir?”

“Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don’t want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks.”

“Oh, anywhere. Here, this will do. I don’t want it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks.”

“Might one look at the work of art, sir?”

“May I look at the artwork, sir?”

Dorian started. “It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,” he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. “I shan’t trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round.”

Dorian started. “It wouldn’t interest you, Mr. Hubbard,” he said, keeping his eye on the man. If Hubbard dared to lift the beautiful hanging that hid the secret of Dorian’s life, Dorian felt ready to leap on him and throw him to the ground. “I won’t trouble you any more now. Thank you very much for coming over.”

“Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir.” And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.

“Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. I’m always ready to do anything for you, sir.” Mr. Hubbard walked heavily downstairs, followed by the assistant. The assistant glanced back at Dorian, his rough, unattractive face showing shy wonder. He had never seen anyone so marvelous.

When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.

When he could no longer hear their footsteps, Dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look at the horrible thing. Only he would ever see his shame.

On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o’clock and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley, his guardian’s wife, a pretty professional invalid, who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of The St. James’s Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to miss the picture—had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one’s house. He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled lace.

When he reached the library, he saw that it was just after five o’clock. Tea had already been brought up. A note from Lord Henry lay on a small table of dark, scented wood, thickly decorated with mother-of-pearl. The table was a gift from Lady Radley, his guardian’s wife. She was a pretty professional invalid who had spent the previous winter in Cairo. Beside the note was a book bound in yellow paper, with a slightly torn cover and soiled edges. A copy of the third edition of The St. James’s Gazette had been placed on the tea tray. Clearly, Victor had returned. He wondered if Victor had met the men in the hall as they were leaving. Had Victor managed to draw out of them what they had been doing? He would certainly notice that the picture was gone. No doubt he had already noticed while setting out the tea. The screen had not been put back, and an empty space showed on the wall. Perhaps one night he might find Victor creeping upstairs and trying to force open the door of the room. It was horrible to have a spy in one’s house. He had heard of rich men blackmailed all their lives by a servant. The servant might have read a letter, overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address. Or the servant might have found a dried flower or a scrap of crumpled lace beneath a pillow.

He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry’s note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James’s languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew attention to the following paragraph:

He sighed, poured himself some tea, and opened Lord Henry’s note. Lord Henry simply said he was sending him the evening paper and a book that might interest him. He also said he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James’s listlessly and looked through it. A red pencil mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew his attention to the following paragraph:

He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that.

He frowned, tore the paper in two, and crossed the room to throw the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He was a little annoyed with Lord Henry for sending him the report. It was certainly stupid of Lord Henry to mark it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that.

Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane’s death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.

Perhaps he had read it and started to suspect something. But what did it matter? What did Dorian Gray have to do with Sibyl Vane’s death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.

His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.

His eye fell on the yellow book Lord Henry had sent him. He wondered what it was. He went over to the small, pearl-colored, eight-sided stand. It had always looked to him like the work of strange Egyptian bees that worked in silver. He picked up the book, flung himself into an armchair, and began turning its pages. After a few minutes, he became absorbed. It was the strangest book he had ever read. It seemed to him that the sins of the world were passing silently before him. They wore exquisite clothes and moved to the delicate sound of flutes. Things he had vaguely dreamed of suddenly became real to him. Things he had never dreamed of were gradually revealed.

It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediæval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows.

It was a novel without a plot and with only one character. It was really a psychological study of a young Parisian. He spent his life trying to experience, in the nineteenth century, all the passions and ways of thinking from every century but his own. He also tried, so to speak, to embody all the moods the world-spirit had ever passed through. He loved the acts of self-denial that people have unwisely called virtue, purely because they were artificial. He loved them as much as the natural rebellions that wise people still call sin. The book was written in a curious, jewel-like style, vivid and obscure at once. It was full of slang and archaic words, technical terms and elaborate rewordings. This style is characteristic of some of the finest artists of the French Symbolist school. The book contained metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in color. The life of the senses was described in the language of mystical philosophy. At times, one could hardly tell whether one was reading a medieval saint’s spiritual ecstasies or a modern sinner’s troubled confessions. It was a poisonous book. The heavy scent of incense seemed to cling to its pages and cloud the mind. The rhythm of the sentences alone drew the boy into a kind of reverie as he passed from chapter to chapter. Their music had a subtle monotony and was full of complex refrains and elaborately repeated movements. It brought on a sickness of dreaming that made him unaware of the fading daylight and creeping shadows.

Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner.

A cloudless, copper-green sky gleamed through the windows, marked by a single star. He read on in its pale light until he could read no more. His valet reminded him several times how late it was. Then he got up and went into the next room. He placed the book on the small Florentine table that always stood beside his bed and began to dress for dinner.

It was almost nine o’clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.

It was almost nine o’clock when he reached the club. He found Lord Henry sitting alone in the morning room, looking very bored.

“I am so sorry, Harry,” he cried, “but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” he cried, “but it’s entirely your fault. The book you sent me fascinated me so much that I lost track of time.”

“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied his host, rising from his chair.

“Yes, I thought you would like it,” his host replied, standing up from his chair.

“I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference.”

“I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There’s a big difference.”

“Ah, you have discovered that?” murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room.

“Ah, you discovered that?” Lord Henry murmured. And they went into the dining room.