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In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge's barge,

that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of

entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets:

thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He

turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table,

passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a

large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born

feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for himself and

hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been

discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As he was

turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait

Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in

surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat

puzzled. After he had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he

seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back, went over to the

picture, and examined it.