esilentwhenDrayeheroom.Therewassomethinginthepurityofhisfacethatrebukedthem.Hismerepresenceseemedtorecalltothemthememoryoftheihattheyhadtarheywonderedhowonesandgracefulashewascouldhaveescapedthestainofawasatoncesordidandsensual.

    Often,ourninghomefromohosemysteriousandprolongedabsehatgaverisetosuchstrangejectureamongthosewhowerehisfriends,orthoughtthattheywereso,hehimselfwouldcreepupstairstothelockedroom,openthedoorwiththekeythatneverlefthimnow,andstand,withamirror,infrontoftheportraitthatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhim,lookingnowattheevilandagingfathevas,andnowatthefairyoungfacethatlaughedbackathimfromthepolishedglass.Theverysharpnessofthetrastusedtoquihissenseofpleasure.Hegrewmoreandmoreenamouredofhisowy,moreandmoreiedinthecorruptionofhisownsoul.Hewouldexamihminutecare,andsometimeswithamonstrousandterribledelight,thehideouslihatsearedthewrinklingforeheadorcrawledaroundtheheavysensualmouth,wsometimeswhichwerethemorehorrible,thesignsofsinorthesignsofage.Hewouldplacehiswhitehandsbesidethecoarsebloatedhandsofthepicture,andsmile.Hemockedthemisshapenbodyandthefailinglimbs.

    Thereweremoments,inight,when,lyingsleeplessinhisowndelicatelystedchamber,orinthesordidroomofthelittleill-famedtaverhedockswhideranassumednameandindisguise,itwashishabittofrequent,hewouldthinkoftheruinhehadbroughtuponhissoulitythatwasallthemorepoignantbecauseiturelyselfish.Butmomentssuchasthesewererare.ThatcuriosityaboutlifewhichLordHenryhadfirststirredinhim,astheysattogetherinthegardenoftheirfriend,se