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He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was

true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness

and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but

what could they learn from that? He would laugh at any one who

tried to taunt him. He had not painted it. What was it to him how

vile and full of shame it looked? Even if he told them, would

they believe it?

Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house

in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his

own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county

by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life,

he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see

that the door had not been tampered with and that the picture was

still there. What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made

him cold with horror. Surely the world would know his secret

then. Perhaps the world already suspected it.