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Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and

wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure

broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips

and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his

soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and

uncouth.

As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like

a knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His

eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of

tears. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.

"Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by

the lad's silence, not understanding what it meant.

"Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it?

It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you

anything you like to ask for it. I must have it."

"It is not my property, Harry."

"Whose property is it?"

"Dorian's, of course," answered the painter.

"He is a very lucky fellow."