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Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous

puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were

too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not

the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely

nothing in the world but youth!"

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac

fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed

round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the

oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with

that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop

when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred

by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when

some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and

calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it

creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The

flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.