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As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil!

How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was

that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he

had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his

friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The

painter's absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his

extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences-he understood them

all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something

tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.

He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away

at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It

had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for

an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access.

CHAPTER X.