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As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a

horrible smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had

been sitting at the table was gone.

CHAPTER XV.

That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a

large button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into

Lady Narborough's drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead

was throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited,

but his manner as he bent over his hostess's hand was as easy and

graceful as ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease

as when one has to play a part. Certainly no one looking at

Dorian Gray that night could have believed that he had passed

through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our age. Those

finely shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for sin,

nor those smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness. He

himself could not help wondering at the calm of his demeanour,

and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double

life.