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He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his

custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry

of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change,

save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the

mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still

loathsome-more loathsome, if possible, than before-and the

scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like

blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it been merely vanity

that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for a new

sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or

that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things

finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was

the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept

like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was

blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped-blood

even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess?