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"Let us sit down, Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled.

"Let us sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you

noticed in the picture something curious?-something that probably

at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you

suddenly?"

"Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with

trembling hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.

"I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to

say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the

most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul,

brain, and power, by you. You became to me the visible

incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists

like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of

every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself.

I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away from me,

you were still present in my art.... Of course, I never let you

know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You

would not have understood it. I hardly understood it myself. I

only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the

world had become wonderful to my eyes-too wonderful, perhaps, for

in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no

less than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on,

and I grew more and more absorbed in you.