He had not entered the place for more than four years—­not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older.  It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance.  It appeared to Dorian to have but little changed.  There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy.  There the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks.  On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists.  How well he remembered it all!  Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round.  He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away.  How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him!

But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as this.  He had the key, and no one else could enter it.  Beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean.  What did it matter?  No one could see it.  He himself would not see it.  Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul?  He kept his youth—­ that was enough.  And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all?  There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame.  Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh—­ those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm.  Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward’s masterpiece.

No; that was impossible.  Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the canvas was growing old.  It might escape the hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it.  The cheeks would become hollow or flaccid.  Yellow crow’s feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible.  The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are.  There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood.  The picture had to be concealed.  There was no help for it.

“Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please,” he said, wearily, turning round.  “I am sorry I kept you so long.  I was thinking of something else.”