to them, laughed at them, forgotten them.  They had not influenced his nature.  Then had come Lord Henry, 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 colorless, 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 ignoble, hideous, and uncouth.

[19] As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver.  His eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them.  He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.

“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad’s silence, and not understanding what it meant.

“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry.  “Who wouldn’t like it?  It is one of the greatest things in modern art.  I will give you anything you like to ask for it.  I must have it.”

“It is not my property, Harry.”

“Whose property is it?”

“Dorian’s, of course.”

“He is a very lucky fellow.”

“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait.  “How sad it is!  I shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful.  But this picture will remain always young.  It will never be older than this particular day of June. . . .  If it was only the other way!  If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old!  For this—­for this—­I would give everything!  Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!”

“You would hardly care for that arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.  “It would be rather hard lines on you.”

“I should object very strongly, Harry.”

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him.  “I believe you would, Basil.  You like your art better than your friends.  I am no more to you than a green bronze figure.  Hardly as much, I dare say.”

Hallward stared in amazement.  It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that.  What had happened?  He seemed almost angry.  His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun.  You will like them always.  How long will you like me?  Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose.  I know, now, that when one loses one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything.  Your picture has taught me that.  Lord Henry is perfectly right.  Youth is the only thing worth having.  When I find that I am growing old, I will kill myself.”

Hallward turned pale, and caught his hand.  “Dorian!  Dorian!” he cried, “don’t talk like that.  I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another.  You are not jealous of material things, are you?”