“Yes, I am glad now.  I wonder shall I always be glad?”

“Always!  That is a dreadful word.  It makes me shudder when I hear it.  Women are so fond of using it.  They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever.  It is a meaningless word, too.  The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.”

As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s arm.  “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose.

Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.  The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance.  In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden.  The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.

After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning.  “It is quite finished,” he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture.  It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.

“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said.  “It is the finest portrait of modern times.  Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself.”

The lad started, as if awakened from some dream.

“Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.

“Quite finished,” said the painter.  “And you have sat splendidly to-day.  I am awfully obliged to you.”

“That is entirely due to me,” broke in Lord Henry.  “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?”

Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it.  When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure.  A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time.  He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words.  The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation.  He had never felt it before.  Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship.  He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them.  They had not influenced his nature.  Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity.  That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him.  Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed.  The scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair.  The life that was to make his soul would mar his body.  He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.