Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.  He understood them now.  Life suddenly became fiery-colored to him.  It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire.  Why had he not known it?

Lord Henry watched him, with his sad smile.  He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing.  He felt intensely interested.  He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through the same experience.  He had merely shot an arrow into the air.  Had it hit the mark?  How fascinating the lad was!

Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength.  He was unconscious of the silence.

“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried Dorian Gray, suddenly.  “I must go out and sit in the garden.  The air is stifling here.”

“My dear fellow, I am so sorry.  When I am painting, I can’t think of anything else.  But you never sat better.  You were perfectly still.  And I have caught the effect I wanted,—­the half-parted lips, and the bright look in the eyes.  I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression.  I suppose he has been paying you compliments.  You mustn’t believe a word that he says.”

“He has certainly not been paying me compliments.  Perhaps that is the reason I don’t think I believe anything he has told me.”

“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes.  “I will go out to the garden with you.  It is horridly hot in the studio.—­Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.”

“Certainly, Harry.  Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want.  I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on.  Don’t keep Dorian too long.  I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day.  This is going to be my masterpiece.  It is my masterpiece as it stands.”

Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine.  He came close to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder.  “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured.  “Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.”

The lad started and drew back.  He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads.  There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened.  His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.