Chapter1

    Thestudiowasfilledwiththerichodourofroses,ahelightsummerwindstirredamidstthetreesofthegarden,therecamethroughtheopendoortheheavystofthelilac,orthemoredelicateperfumeofthepink-flthorn.

    FromtheerofthedivanofPersiansaddle-bagsonwhichhewaslying,smoking,aswashis,innumerablecigarettes,LordHenryWottoncouldjustcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweetandhoney-colouredblossomsofalaburnum,whosetremulousbranchesseemedhardlyabletobeartheburdenofabeautysoflamelikeastheirs;andnowahefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthatwerestretchedinfrontofthehugewindow,produgakindofmomentaryJapaneseeffedmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpaintersofTokyowhhthemediumofanartthatisnecessarilyimmobile,seektoveythesenseofswiftnessandmotion.Thesullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcirgwithmonotonousinsistencerouygilthornsofthestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantan.

    Ireoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportraitofayoungmaraordinarypersoy,andinfrontofit,somelittledistanceaway,wassittiisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesuddendisappearaneyearsagocaused,atthetime,suchpublicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangejectures.

    Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandelyformhehadsoskilfullymirroredinhisart,asmileofpleasurepassedacrosshisfadseemedabouttolihere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhisfingersuponthelids,asthoughhesoughttoimpriso