CHAPTER IX.

llrathercurioustolearnwhoIwas,andthatsheinvariablytoldthemmynamewasPrinceCharming.Itwasprettyofher.YoumustdomeadrawingofSibyl,Basil.Ishouldliketohavesomethingmoreofherthanthememoryofafewkissesandsomebrokenpatheticwords.” “Iwilltryanddosomething,Dorian,ifitwouldpleaseyou.Butyoumustcomeandsittomeyourselfagain.Ican’tgetonwithoutyou.” “Icanneversittoyouagain,Basil.Itisimpossible!”heexclaimed,startingback. Thepainterstaredathim.“Mydearboy,whatnonsense!”hecried.“Doyoumeantosayyoudon’tlikewhatIdidofyou?Whereisit?Whyhaveyoupulledthescreeninfrontofit?Letmelookatit.ItisthebestthingIhaveeverdone.Dotakethescreenaway,Dorian.Itissimplydisgracefulofyourservanthidingmyworklikethat.IfelttheroomlookeddifferentasIcamein.” “Myservanthasnothingtodowithit,Basil.Youdon’timagineIlethimarrangemyroomforme?Hesettlesmyflowersformesometimes—thatisall.NoIdiditmyself.Thelightwastoostrongontheportrait.” “Toostrong!Surelynot,mydearfellow?Itisanadmirableplaceforit.Letmeseeit.”AndHallwardwalkedtowardsthecorneroftheroom. AcryofterrorbrokefromDorianGray’slips,andherushedbetweenthepainterandthescreen.“Basil,”hesaid,lookingverypale,“youmustnotlookatit.Idon’twishyouto.” “Notlookatmyownwork!Youarenotserious.Whyshouldn’tIlookatit?”exclaimedHallward,laughing. “Ifyoutrytolookatit,Basil,onmywordofhonourIwillneverspeaktoyouagainaslongasIlive.Iamquiteserious.Idon’tofferanyexplanation,andyouarenottoaskforany.But,remember,ifyoutouchthisscreen,everythingisoverbetweenus.” Hallwardwasthunderstruck.HelookedatDorianGrayinabsoluteamazement.Hehadneverseenhimlikethisbefore.Theladwasactuallypallidwithrage.Hishandswereclenched,andthepupilsofhiseyeswerelikedisksofbluefire.Hewastremblingallover. “Dorian!” “Don’tspeak!” “Butwhatisthematter?OfcourseIwon’tlookatitifyoudon’twantmeto,”hesaid,rathercoldly,turningonhisheelandgoingovertowardsthewindow.“But,really,itseemsratherabsurdthatIshouldn’tseemyownwork,especiallyasIamgoingtoexhibititinParisintheautumn.Ishallprobablyhavetogiveitanothercoatofvarnishbeforethat,soImustseeitsomeday,andwhynotto-day?” “Toexhibitit!Youwanttoexhibitit?”exclaimedDorianGray,astrangesenseofterrorcreepingoverhim.Wastheworldgoingtobeshownhissecret?Werepeopletogapeatthemysteryofhislife?Thatwasimpossible.Something—hedidnotknowwhat—hadtobedoneatonce. “YesIdon’tsupposeyouwillobjecttothat.GeorgesPetitisgoingtocollectallmybestpicturesforaspecialexhibitionintheRuedeSèze,whichwillopenthefirstweekinOctober.Theportraitwillonlybeawayamonth.Ishouldthinkyoucouldeasilyspareitforthattime.Infact,youaresuretobeoutoftown.Andifyoukeepitalwaysbehindascreen,youcan’tcaremuchaboutit.” DorianGraypassedhishandoverhisforehead.Therewerebeadsofperspirationthere.Hefeltthathewasonthebrinkofahorribledanger.“Youtoldmeamonthagothatyouwouldneverexhibitit,”hecried.“Whyhaveyouchangedyourmind?Youpeoplewhogoinforbeingconsistenthavejustasmanymoodsasothershave.Theonlydifferenceisthatyourmoodsarerathermeaningless.Youcan’thaveforgottenthatyouassuredmemostsolemnlythatnothingintheworldwouldinduceyoutosendittoanyexhibition.YoutoldHarryexactlythesamething.”Hestoppedsuddenly,andagleamoflightcameintohiseyes.HerememberedthatLordHenryhadsaidtohimonce,halfseriouslyandhalfinjest,“Ifyouwanttohaveastrangequarterofanhour,getBasiltotellyouwhyhewon’texhibityourpicture.Hetoldmewhyhewouldn’t,anditwasarevelationtome.”Yes,perhapsBasil,too,hadhissecret.Hewouldaskhimand