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It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had

never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and

he felt as if his blood had changed 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

unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It

was dank with clammy sweat.

The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him

with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those

who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting.

There was neither 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.