Lord Harry laughed.  “And what is that?” he asked.

“I will tell you,” said Hallward; and an expression of perplexity came over his face.

“I am all expectation, Basil,” murmured his companion, looking at him.

“Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the young painter; “and I am afraid you will hardly understand it.  Perhaps you will hardly believe it.”

Lord Henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass, and examined it.  “I am quite sure I shall understand it,” he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, “and I can believe anything, provided that it is incredible.”

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air.  A grasshopper began to chirrup in the grass, and a long thin dragon-fly floated by on its brown gauze wings.  Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart beating, and he wondered what was coming.

“Well, this is incredible,” repeated Hallward, rather bitterly,—­ “incredible to me at times.  I don’t know what it means.  The story is simply this.  Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon’s.  You know we poor painters have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages.  With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized.  Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious Academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me.  I turned half-way round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.  When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale.  A curious instinct of terror came over me.  I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.  I did not want any external influence in my life.  You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature.  My father destined me for the army.  I insisted on [7] going to Oxford.  Then he made me enter my name at the Middle Temple.  Before I had eaten half a dozen dinners I gave up the Bar, and announced my intention of becoming a painter.  I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.  Then—­But I don’t know how to explain it to you.  Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life.  I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows.  I knew that if I spoke to Dorian I would become absolutely devoted to him, and that I ought not to speak to him.  I grew afraid, and turned to quit the room.  It was not conscience that made me do so:  it was cowardice.  I take no credit to myself for trying to escape.”