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"Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but

between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I

have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and

colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar

them."

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with

pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked

over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high

curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were

straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes,

seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife,

with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He

was going to rip up the canvas.

With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing

over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to

the end of the studio. "Don't, Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would

be murder!"