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"I forget," said Dorian. "I suppose I did. But I never really

liked it. I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is

hateful to me. Why do you talk of it? It used to remind me of

those curious lines in some play-Hamlet, I think-how do they

run?-

"Like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart."

Yes: that is what it was like."

Lord Henry laughed. "If a man treats life artistically, his brain

is his heart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.

Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the

piano. "'Like the painting of a sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face

without a heart.'"

The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes.

"By the way, Dorian," he said after a pause, "'what does it

profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose-how does the

quotation run?-his own soul'?"

The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his

friend. "Why do you ask me that, Harry?"