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He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when

he looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen

aside and saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The

portrait had altered.

As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small

wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a

feeling of almost scientific interest. That such a change should

have taken place was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact.

Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that

shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul

that was within him? Could it be that what that soul thought,

they realized?-that what it dreamed, they made true? Or was there

some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt afraid,

and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in

sickened horror.