“I am waiting,” cried Hallward.  “Do come in.  The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.”

They rose up, and sauntered down the walk together.  Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing.

“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at him.

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

[18] “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 forever.  It is a meaningless word, too.  The only difference between a caprice and a life-long 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 upon 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 Hallward stepped back now and then to look at his work from a distance.  In the slanting beams that streamed through the open door-way 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 smiling.  “It is quite finished,” he cried, at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in thin 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.—­“Mr. Gray, come 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 Hallward.  “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 exaggerations of friendship.  He had listened