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He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that

covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the

screen. Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed

to him that it was unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was

intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips-they all

were there. It was simply the expression that had altered. That

was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw in it of

censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil's reproaches about Sibyl

Vane had been!-how shallow, and of what little account! His own

soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to

judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich

pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He

passed out as his servant entered.

"The persons are here, Monsieur."